The Abyss Gazes Also
by JimW
Summary: I'm not a cop, he thinks. I'm... not a cop.  And that means there are a lot of things I can't do. But it also means...  I don't have to play by the rules.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _The idea for this story came to me after re-watching Rise for about the 10th time. Once it got into my head, I couldn't get it out. It eventually got so bad that I had to write it down in a weird sort of mental self-exorcism. Originally I intended it as a one-shot, but a few very kind folks (you know who you are) were so enthusiastic in their response that I just had to keep going. I'm so very grateful to all of them for prodding me, because the creative outlet that writing this story has provided is one of the few bright spots in the constant grind that is my day-to-day existence._

_Thanks to all of you for reading, reviewing, favoriting and following. I try to respond to all my reviews, but I know I may have missed a few in the shuffle. If you've reviewed and I haven't responded, please accept this as my apology - and my thanks._

**Disclaimer:** Not my world, just my words.

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><p>Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster; and if you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. - Friedrich Nietzsche<p>

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><p>Richard Edgar Castle glanced up from the odd, kidney-shaped brown mark on the linoleum floor of the hallway. He checked the clock. It seemed that hours had gone by since his mother had left his side to go speak with Lanie and Esposito, but it had in fact only been 5 minutes.<p>

His gaze drifted back down. Was that just dirt of some sort, or was it a permanent stain? His mind was jumbled up and it was hard to focus, hard to distract himself from the bright flaming core of rage that had been growing inside. He raged at himself for all the mistakes he'd made, especially the recent ones that had cost so dearly.

Mostly he raged at himself for hesitating. How much time had he lost in that brief moment of doubt? He'd seen the glint off the sniper scope, and deep down he'd known - instantly - _known_ what it was, but the civilized, naive part of him had questioned, had _wavered_. Just for a moment.

_They couldn't. Not here. Not __**now**_.

But of course, they could.

And if not for that brief moment of doubt, he would have reached her half a second, maybe a second sooner. He remembered it very clearly, even though in the moment the entire experience had that reality-slowing-to-a-crawl feeling of a nightmare. If he hadn't indulged in that moment of doubt, _he_ would have taken the bullet, not Kate.

Well, that would have suited him just fine. Because it _was_ his fault.

No, he couldn't have foreseen what would happen that night he wheedled Esposito into letting him into the records room, rummaging through boxes for that well-worn case file.

"If you tell her I did this, I _will_ make you bleed."

"Understood."

But of course, he'd understood nothing. Nothing at all. He hadn't had the slightest idea what they were dealing with.

Oh, but he understood now. More than understood. He _comprehended_. They were animals; totally without decency or morality or even humanity. They would attack even during that most sacred time when decent people gathered to honor and bid farewell to their beloved friend or kin. They were rabid dogs, fit for nothing but to be hunted down and _put_ down.

What was beyond argument was that he bore a share of the blame for the fact that they were here, _now_. He could try to comfort himself that Raglan would have gotten the ball rolling again, regardless of what Castle had done. That Lanie would have picked up on the similarities in MO on the Coonan case and called in Dr. Murray herself. That Beckett eventually would have picked the case up again. But none of that changed the fact that he'd started his own row of dominoes falling, when he went digging two years ago. Raglan wasn't the only one who'd made a bad mistake.

He tried to distract himself again, his eyes shifting around until they rested on his shoes. Traitor shoes. He fought the brief, petulant urge to rip them off his feet and hurl them down the corridor.

Why the hell did he wear the Ferragamos? They had those smooth leather soles, and he remembered them slipping, no purchase on the grass of the cemetery. Costing him, again, a half second or more as he tried desperately to reach her. He remembered the sick, horrible feeling in his gut as his feet slipped on the grass, that slow-motion nightmarish inability to move.

Why did he wear them? He had other, more sensible shoes. But of course, he knew the answer to that question. He wore them because Kate liked them. She never commented on his clothes, but one time he'd worn them and then caught her looking at them approvingly as they stepped into the elevator. She liked them, and he remembered, and so he wore them today because today he'd wanted to be as perfect as he could be. For her.

And if he hadn't worn them, he'd have taken the bullet instead. Two mistakes. Had he made only one of them, he'd be the one shot. Had he made neither, they both would be alive and unscathed. He'd give everything he owned to go back and fix one of them. He'd sell his _soul_ to unmake both.

He remembered buying the shoes, $1700 at Saks; he'd burn the damn things when he got home. Burn them to cinders, to ashes. Or maybe chop them up with a cleaver and run them down the garbage disposal.

His eyes wandered about again, rested again on the mark.

_It must be a stain. Surely they wouldn't leave that floor uncleaned_.

So many mistakes to regret. He'd lived so much of his life without regrets. Even his screw-ups he seldom regretted, because there'd never been malice in any of them. The only person he'd ever hurt with his mistakes had been himself. Sin, suffering and repentance all at once. A little self-contained lesson, sometimes taken to heart and sometimes not, but always safely left behind.

Now he thought back, and back, and couldn't believe how many mistakes he regretted. All tied to the woman whose blood was still drying on his clothes. So much bitterness in his heart over the thoughtless, stupid jibes, going all the way back to that first day. Had he known then- but of course he hadn't. How different he'd been then. How foolish and thoughtless and proud and vain.

She'd challenged him...

"I don't know Rick, you're the novelist, you tell me."

And of course, being him, he'd thoughtlessly risen to the bait. Stupid, stupid fool, just having to show off. To prove how smart he was. The dumbest genius in the world. He still cringed inside when he remembered the way her face had changed. Had become so... still, shields going up as his words had struck home. Hulled 'twixt wind and water, without even the recourse of striking back at him, because she'd invited it, hadn't she?

Beckett wasn't the type of woman to pick a fight, and then complain that you shouldn't hit a girl.

"No, you're wounded but you're not _that_ wounded. No, it was somebody you cared about. It was somebody you loved. And you probably could have lived with that, but the person responsible was never caught. And that, Detective Beckett, is why you're here."

He could still picture perfectly how her face had frozen, so different from the lively, animated visage he'd come to know. To love.

How many times he'd wished he could go back and change those words, his kingdom for a time machine so he could slap himself silly that morning and say "Don't be an idiot! _Don't you dare take the bait!_" That one foolish outburst, and worse, the pride that kept him from apologizing. Just a pathetic justification, "I'm just saying, there's always a story." And so the trajectory of their relationship was set. Her guard always up, years learning to trust him. Years _becoming_ a man she could trust. Stupid, stupid fool!

He looked again at the clock. Seven more minutes.

The things he tormented himself for the most, however, were the things he had _not_ done. Were the sins of omission always greater than those of commission? Or just more numerous?

How many times could he have done something, said something, to bridge the gap between them? To tear the wall down, patiently, bit by bit. All of those failures, none worse than the penultimate failure the night before Montgomery's death. Like most of those failures, when you boiled it all down it was about his own foolish pride.

She'd given him a chance. Why hadn't he taken it? She'd asked him, _asked_ him, flat out, and still he couldn't - no, wouldn't - answer her truthfully.

"I'm your partner, I'm your friend."

"Is _that_ what we are?"

Just like that, the challenge. So different from and yet so similar to its bookend, the challenge on that first day. He'd taken her up on a challenge that would hurt her, but wouldn't on a challenge that might have finally put paid to the wounds he'd once so carelessly inflicted. Why, why? Was it fear? Was it anger? Was it pride?

He didn't deserve her. Too cowardly to open up, to give her the truth, to make the leap. If he'd told her the truth, maybe she wouldn't have closed down and kicked him out - maybe he could have talked her down from the ledge.

"I don't know what we are. I know what you are to me. The sun rises and it sets, Kate. The sun rises and it sets. I spend my mornings waiting for the call. Nothing else I'm doing really matters; I'm just waiting. And if lunchtime arrives with no call, I know I won't be seeing you that day. Not unless I can make up some excuse to visit the 12th. And the disappointment is always as bitter as gall."

"But when the phone rings and I see your name, it's like Christmas morning. Every. Single. Time. I love you, Kate. I'd do anything for you. Anything but let you throw your life away."

But no, he'd let the pride and the anger and the fear get the best of him. Again. _Again_, God damn him. And his chance was gone. Just like that: gone. The only thing he'd been able to give her was an anguished confession of the truth as she lay bleeding (dying? no please dear God no) on the grass. Was it for her? Was it for him? Anything to get her to fight, to stay with him?

_God, I know we don't talk much. Almost never, in fact. But please, don't make her pay for my mistakes. Give me a chance to live it down. Please, God. Anything, anything to see those eyes again._

_Maybe they should just rip up this linoleum and replace it._

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><p>A gentle hand on his shoulder. He won't permit himself to react. The fury is too big in him, bubbling up and up, threatening to spill over and out. Nobody here deserves it, nothing here but love and concern for Kate. He takes a second, assures himself that the poker face is firmly in place. Looks up. It's Lanie, her dark eyes concerned, the tears on her sweet face mostly dried.<p>

"How are you doing? Are you OK?"

His mouth opens; he thinks better of it, closes it, then says "OK. Yes. Trying not to think."

She looks at him, briefly, and something in her expression makes him wonder if she's not buying it, if maybe the mask isn't quite perfect.

"I'm going to find a break room or a coffee shop. Can I bring you anything?"

"No, but thank you Lanie." He reaches up to her hand, still at his shoulder, and clasps it briefly. Her fingers are warm.

She pauses again, a short searching look, then drops her hand from his shoulder and starts down the hallway.

He looks around, sees Alexis and his Mother sitting next to Kate's father. Ryan and Esposito are on their cells, coordinating the investigation, gathering intel, giving orders. He knows he should talk to them, try to help, at least find out what's up, but he doesn't trust himself to be right, to act right, just now. He's burned up all his concern for anything but Kate. No energy left to pretend to care about anything else. Trying to survive long enough to hear, one way or the other.

_NO! Dammit, there was no __**other**__. She's going to make it, she __**has**__ to make it!_

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><p>Lanie presents the little cardboard tray of cups to Javi and Kevin. Each grabs greedily at his cup, murmuring thanks, sucking down coffee fast, fuel for the machines. Kevin barely swallows as he barks out another not-too-civil response to the uni on the line. "I said one hour on those traffic cams, and it's been 40 minutes. Nothing has shown up on my inbox. Get on the stick, and spread the damn word! <em>Nobody<em> drags their feet on this one."

Esposito is between calls, so he has enough presence of mind to divide between coffee and Lanie.

"Chica, are you OK?"

"I... yes. No. I'm... worried about Castle."

Javi glanced across and down the hall to where the writer perched on his chair, hands folded in his lap, staring down at the floor somewhere between his shoes. He _was_ a little quiet. Javier had been too engrossed in business to notice, trying to stave off the rising panic with protocol and procedures, to focus on _acting_.

"Who talked to him last?"

"Me, I think. He..."

Javi looked, really _looked_ at Lanie's face. There was something more than just concern there. Something that bordered on fear. "He what?"

"I don't know. I talked to him, asked him how he was. And he was calm. Too calm. And..."

"And what?"

"It's stupid. He..."

_"What?"_

"I don't know how to... He _wasn't Castle_, baby. I don't know how else to say it. I looked in his eyes and it just wasn't him. It was like... whatever makes him Castle was just gone, just checked out of the room, and somebody else was there."

"OK. It's OK. Thanks, honey. I'll..." His phone beeped. "Esposito here." He covered the mouthpiece. "I'll talk to him in a minute." But it ended up being more like 5 minutes, and by that time, decisions had already been made.

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><p>Seconds after Lanie had left, his mind had gone right back to the furious introspection, as if nothing had happened. It wasn't about anything anyone else could say or do, had said or done. It was all about his monumental failures, and desperate searching for a way to atone for them. It was just too big. There was too much. His mind worried at it futilely, like a starving dog gnawing frantically on a bone long since bare.<p>

He would throw himself into the investigation, of course. No other priorities, nothing but the hunt, him and Ryan and Esposito, all for one, one for all. The people who did this _would_ be caught, made to pay. Any other possibility was unthinkable.

But... What if they couldn't catch them? No, they _had_ to catch them. Not just for justice' sake, but for Kate's safety. Because she _would_ pull through, dammit.

But... What if they _couldn't?_ He fumed and raged but couldn't ignore the question, escape the doubt. There was too much of the calm, analytical Castle still there. The bastard behind this had gone free for almost 2 decades, 19 years since he extorted the extortionists, making off with God alone knew how much cash.

_He used that money to become what he is._

That memory stopped his mind dead in its tracks. To _become_ what he _is_. Montgomery had called it his greatest sin. _Mea maxima culpa._ What did that _mean?_ His mind grasped dimly that there was something there, some crucial insight waiting to be gleaned, but he couldn't get it just now, couldn't think past the rage and the pain.

He couldn't get past it, couldn't focus, no matter how desperately he wanted, needed to.

The rage just kept growing and growing, making him feel like he was stretching out of shape. All hidden behind his flawless poker face as he silently studied the floor. No one bothered him; no one interrupted him; nothing to defuse the bomb inside. And somewhere deep down, just as the pressure reached a point where he was sure he would explode, something inside Richard Castle _flipped_.

In the days and weeks to come, he would have time to look back on this moment, to analyze it dispassionately, dissecting it like a body on Lanie's morgue table. He would even be somewhat bemused by the truth of it. Had he really lived almost _40 years_ before coming to this crossroads?

There were reasons, of course. Fundamentally, he was a happy person, and blessed with both wit and charm, and a perfect willingness to make a fool of himself. It was easy to make friends as the class clown, and hard to make enemies. Rick Castle had never really had to deal with an enemy, never felt anything worse than distaste or annoyance at another person.

But now, all of that changed. He remembered a quote from Sir Francis Bacon: "he that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune." The flip side of giving your heart to someone, of loving completely and unreservedly, was to leave yourself open to the possibility of an injury so grievous that it might be impossible to forgive.

Richard Castle had finally learned to _hate_.

And with the hate, finally, blessedly, came the clarity he needed. A terrible-beautiful, _pellucid_ clarity.

He paused for a moment, one last gasp of the old Richard Castle, the happy-go-lucky guy with a joke for all and malice towards none. Was this what Kate had felt, 12 years ago? Would he be consumed like her? Did he even care?

_No. No, I don't. They. Will. __**Pay**__._

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><p>His mind was working furiously now, racing down one path of possibilities after another, like a chess grandmaster thinking a dozen moves ahead, gambit after gambit after gambit.<p>

Fact: The person we are tracking is a _man_. Montgomery had said "_He_ used that money to become what _he_ is."

Fact: This... man... was utterly ruthless, wealthy, and well connected.

Postulated, but not necessarily a fact: The man was once either a cop or someone who worked in close proximity to cops, possibly an attorney.

Fact: This man had, roughly 19 years ago, suddenly become quite wealthy, and then proceeded to transform himself into something... else.

Question: _What_ had he become?

Question: _How_ did he wield so much power and influence?

Possible Answer: A wealthy businessman, parleying his windfall into more and yet more money?

Analysis: Possible, very possible, but how did that explain his access to so many very shady individuals, willing to do the most unspeakable things for money? Novels and Hollywood films aside, almost no _real_ businessmen were like that. That said, there _were_ some industries that might make that more likely. Private security. Military contracting. Not all ex-military were paragons, and they certainly had the skills.

Fact: The man had been able to run background checks, or have background checks run, surreptitiously, on a lot of people. An entire prison staff, in fact.

Question: Who could do that? Who would know how? An ex-cop, yes, but who else?

Answer: Someone with access to cops and money to pay people off. Enough money to pay people off without leaving a trail, no less. But... Damn. No, not a lot of narrowing down to do there. We already know he has money, a lot of money. What else do we know?

Answer: He has _power_. And power came in many forms. What about _political_ power?

Castle paused, barely breathing, considering this idea. Considering it very, very carefully. What _about_ political power? Someone now high up in government, someone with not just his own money, but influence over how the terrifying sums controlled by government might be spent. Someone with behind-the-scenes access to the power of governmental agencies to investigate and gather information, all with "plausible deniability."

Someone with a _lot_ to lose.

Yes, yes, that could work. That could _really_ work. It could also easily narrow the search, in several ways. Suddenly it seemed less likely that the man in question was a cop, or at least a line cop. More likely someone with greater influence, maybe Internal Affairs or... someone at the District Attorney's office. A _lot_ of politicians came out of DA's offices.

The problem then was that such a person could pull a lot of strings to thwart investigations, to put up all sorts of roadblocks to legal pursuit. They could stop most police investigations almost dead in their tracks, all without even tipping their hands. Especially if they weren't above the more... unsavory means of persuasion. Bribes. Blackmail. Coercion. Threats of violence. They could make it very hard for any cop trying to track them down.

And, hell, Richard Castle wasn't even a cop.

_That_ thought made him pause again.

_I'm not a cop. I'm... __**not**__ a cop._

_And that means there are a lot of things I can't do. But it also means..._

_I don't have to play by the rules._

_I __**don't have to play by the rules.**_

_And I have resources. Last I checked, about 38 million of them. And I know people. I've got guys everywhere._

_What's more, I know people who __**know people**__._

And with that cold realization, unbeknownst to anyone, the death knell sounded for a man somewhere in Washington DC, a man who believed he couldn't be touched.

It was just a matter of time.

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><p>He sensed a hovering presence, Esposito next to him. "Hey, Castle. How you holdin' up?"<p>

Castle looked up more quickly this time, more confident of his facade now. He could look Esposito in the eye and talk to him, though the ideas were still churning inside, churning at near-breakneck speed.

He'd have to be careful not to tip his hand. To work with Esposito and Ryan, day in and day out, giving his all to the investigation without ever revealing... The other things he was doing. Was now _willing_ to do.

"Just waiting. No news is good news right now."

Javi looking at him, searchingly, his face tense. Then, relaxing. "We just got word back on the rifle, no prints they could find, but they did get DNA. They said they'll call with an update on that in a few hours. It's our first real break so far. Just thought you should know."

"Thanks."

"Can I get you anything, bro?"

Rick flashed him a brief grim smile, little more than a stretching of the lips. "Time machine?"

"Yeah. I hear you." With that, Esposito moved back to join Lanie and Ryan.

A few seconds later, he felt rather than saw as his mother and Alexis rejoined him, taking their places in the two open seats to his right. Neither said anything, but his mother gently clasped his arm and pressed against him, and Alexis reached around her to place a hand on his shoulder.

He welcomed the contact now, now that the rage had been safely channeled.

"Mr. Beckett?"

All conversations stopped and eyes turned down the hallway toward the source of that voice. A still realization in everyone's mind that this was the verdict. But Castle didn't need to hear him say it. He could hear it in the man's tone, see it in his face, in the set of his shoulders and his stance. Kate was still alive, and this guy thought she was going make it. She might be in bad shape, it might be touch and go. But she was alive.

"Your daughter is out of surgery..."

Castle wouldn't end up down the rabbit hole, wouldn't go over entirely. Because he'd still have Kate.

But there were things he would now have to hide from her, as well. He'd have to be careful.

He'd do everything he could _within the law_ out of respect for and devotion to his friends. But if that wasn't enough...

It didn't matter. Anything, _anything_ to keep her safe.


	2. Chapter 2

This one is for tinlizzie82, who was the first to prod me.

**Disclaimer:** Not my world, just my words.

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><p>He was groping around on the ground, each move bringing him upon another victim, all staring up at him sightlessly and bleeding from gaping wounds. He couldn't stop the bleeding, pressing his hand to one wound before he saw another body, then stretching and trying to cover those wounds in a macabre game of Twister.<p>

He was just reaching out with his left foot when the ringing of his cell shocked him awake.

The 12th. He was at the 12th. It took a moment for him to realize that he was sleeping pitched forward onto Ryan's desk. A nightmare, he'd been having a nightmare! He twisted in his seat, looking for Beckett at her desk, hoping...

Her chair was empty. It wasn't _all_ a nightmare. Or maybe it was. He felt bile trying to rise in his throat as the reality washed over him again.

He dragged the phone out of his pocket, flipped it on. "Castle."

It was a nurse from the hospital. Beckett was conscious and they had removed the vent tube. She was cleared for visitors, and his name was 2nd on the list behind Jim Beckett.

Castle wanted to weep with relief, but not in the middle of the bullpen. "Yeah, are you sure?"

He checked his watch. He'd stop by the loft, shower and change, and he could be there in 50 minutes.

He announced loudly to the room that she was alive and awake, reveling in the tired but heartfelt applause that followed him into the elevator. It had been a long night for everyone.

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><p>He was in the hallway at the hospital, flowers in hand, when it suddenly hit him what he was walking into. She <em>knew<em>. He'd said it, and now there'd be hell to pay, no doubt about it. Hopefully she would be too tired to throw him out.

He spotted the guards at her door, but he only recognized one of them, and he didn't really _know_ that one. He wanted someone _he_ knew and trusted at the door, and wondered if he could wrangle something. He had only so much pull, but he'd use all of it.

LT was smart as hell and he noticed _everything_. Castle had his own internal bet going on how soon LT would make detective; and he'd seen him down in the gym, working out and sparring. The guy was death on foot.

As he faced the door, the terror almost got the best of him. Suddenly feeling like a teenager picking up his prom date, the girl with the meanest dad in town, he ducked to the left and checked his hair in the closest reflective surface, the glass on a fire extinguisher case.

OK, no putting it off now, or he'd never muster the courage again. He opened the door and stepped through.

Josh was seated next to her, mumbling something about her bracelet not being diamonds, but Castle barely noticed. She was _alive_. The flood of relief that washed through him was so overwhelming he was literally struck dumb. Every line he'd worked out dropped through the floor of his mind into oblivion in an instant.

And then she was looking at him, looking _right at him_ and the smile on her face is heartbreaking and those flashing green eyes are open and _alive_ and she speaks his name and all he can think is _ALIVE_. The word is a klaxon sounding in his head, drowning out everything else.

...ALIVE ALIVE ALIVE...

_Thank you God, thank you, thank you for my friend..._

He barely notices as Josh brushes past him, though for a brief instant he considers that the guy _does_ know how to use a scalpel and nobody has his back just now. But the moment passes and Josh doesn't put anything in his back, or so much as make a scene.

Then it's just him and Kate. None of the lines comes back to him and he doesn't know what to say, he just stands there awestruck and shuffling feet and basking in her presence, her _living_ presence. "Hey." He moves forward slowly, tentatively, his eyes never leaving that beloved face.

She reaches up to touch her face, hiding it as if his gaze has made her embarrassed about her appearance. "You're staring at me; I must look really bad."

He can't say what he wants to say, it's going to be rough enough dealing with the fallout of the cemetery confession. How can he tell her that nothing has ever looked more beautiful to him? How he'd been terrified that he would never see her eyes again? That the first dawn in Eden couldn't hope to compare?

"No, I just thought I'd never see you again."

There are so many flowers already; the precinct must have sent flowers, and he sees a magnificent bouquet of orchids in a giant beer stein that _must_ be the work of the gang at the Old Haunt.

The sight of all those flowers finally prompts his imagination to produce an opening gambit: "I heard you were opening a flower store, so I thought I'd pitch in."

"They were all here when I woke up. I think they're mostly from the precinct." She pauses, looking more than a little chagrined. "I don't think I'm gonna live this one down, Castle."

"Oh, probably not." It was only the truth, of course.

He waits; he can't think of anything else to say. Now it would come out, and how was he ever going to make things right? What if she's embarrassed? What if she's angry? What if she doesn't...

"I hear that you tried to save me."

"Yeah, I... uh... you heard?" His mind stumbles again, dumbstruck. She... heard? "You don't remember me tackling you?"

"No, I don't remember much of anything. I, um, remember that I was on the podium, and then I just remember everything going black."

She didn't... His heart twists in his chest. In the days to come he'll wonder, try to put himself back in this moment and remember, to be sure. He doesn't know whether he's more disappointed or relieved. Could they go back, back to the way they were before? But no, even if this was a possibility, he knew he didn't want it. He wanted to move forward with her. Always forward. No more dancing around it, dammit, he's the one for her, she's the one for him, and it's time to dive into it together.

"You don't remember... the gunshot?"

"No." She glances at him, then can't seem to keep the eye contact. She looks down. "They say that there are some things that are better not being remembered."

He's close, so close, to just saying it again, but then she looks up at him and he sees the bone-weariness there, the dark circles around her eyes, and he can't do it. It's too much to pile on her right now. It's just... not the right time. "Yeah."

Will it _ever_ be the right time again?

"I keep seeing his face, Castle, every time I close my eyes I see Montgomery lying on the hangar floor. You should have let me go in there."

This was still there? He thought she'd forgiven him, or at least made peace with it. "They would have killed you."

"Oh, you don't know that."

"Kate..."

"Castle. I'm really tired right now."

And then he just can't take it any longer, it's all wrong, all gone sideways, he has to go, and this is his chance to bail with some semblance of dignity left to him. "Of course. Of course, we'll talk tomorrow."

"Do you mind if we don't? I just need a little bit of time."

"Sure. Sure, how much time?"

"I'll call you, OK?"

"Sure."

Then he turns to depart, hoping it's not too rushed, hoping it doesn't look like he feels: like he should have a tail and it should be between his legs.

* * *

><p>The first order of business as he stepped out of the hospital was to call the Watch Commander, which at this time of day should be an old sergeant named Winters. He dialed the main line for the 12th, waited patiently for the answer.<p>

"NYPD 12th Precinct, how may I direct your call?"

"Watch Commander, please"

"Castle! Is that you?"

"Yes, is this Marie?"

"Yes, yes! I heard she's awake, is it true?"

"Yes, Marie. She's awake, she seems OK. I can't believe nobody's gotten the word to you. Somebody there must know, though, there were a ton of flowers in the room."

"Great news! I'll make sure everyone knows."

"Thanks, Marie."

"No problem. I'll put you through to Winters."

"Thanks."

The phone buzzed in his ear for a second, then another few seconds of horrible muzak.

"Sergeant Winters."

"Hey, Sarge, it's..."

"Castle, I know your voice. How is she doing?"

"She's awake and she's talking, but really tired. Sort of dark around the eyes, you know?"

"Yeah."

"Listen, I was wondering if you could juggle some duty assignments."

"Way ahead of you, son."

"Excuse me?"

"LT stopped by earlier this morning and volunteered to do eight on and eight off, as long as it takes. Fitzgerald already signed off on it. Folks are lined up for the duty, you know. I think LT may have had to fight a few people for the honor. He also dragged along Miller, who's even meaner than LT, or so LT says. Same routine. One of them will be on her door at all times, and we'll rotate other people for the second post. I'll make sure they're all sharp, don't you worry."

Castle was suddenly absurdly grateful that he'd decided to call instead of stopping by the precinct. If the grizzled old duty officer could see him now, he'd never, ever live it down.

"Castle, you there? You're not getting sloppy on me, are you son?"

"No," he choked out. "No, sir. Thanks, thanks for everything."

"No problem, son. We take care of our own, here."

"Thank you, Sarge."

"And Castle?"

"Yes?"

"That includes you. Now stop bothering me."

"Thanks." He was absolutely squeaking now. "I'll check in later."

And then, thank God, he was off the line, and the bus stop bench was close at hand. He collapsed onto it and quietly surrendered to the grief and unutterable relief, weeping silently and thinking nothing but "thank you, God, thank you, God, thank you."

His best friend was still alive.

* * *

><p>When he had himself back together, he started making calls. First, before he could lose track, he called the bar.<p>

"The Old Haunt."

"Brian?"

"Hey, boss. How is Detective Beckett? We're all pulling for her down here." Brian had expected to be fired when Castle bought the place. Instead, Rick made him head bartender, manager, and bumped his pay $400 a week. He'd never found fruit in the sink since. Nor had he regretted the decision.

"I saw the orchids. Who picked those out, you?"

"No, it was Annie. I picked out the stein, though."

"Be sure to tell her I said thanks. They were beautiful. Listen, two names to add to the list. You know LT?"

"Beat cop, tall black guy, sorta freaky-long, big arms?"

"That's him. The other is Sergeant Winters."

"Is that the old guy with, like, twice as much gray on the left side as the right?"

"Bingo again. If either of them ever pays for another drink, I'll fire the person who charged them."

"Their money's no good, now or ever. Got it. I'll spread the word."

"I'll stop in some time tomorrow, maybe the day after."

"I'll hold down the fort."

He hung up and immediately did a quick web search, found he was lucky today, one of the places he needed to stop was less than 3 blocks away. He turned east and moved like a man with a purpose.

* * *

><p>Two hours later he was the proud owner of 11 burner cells, purchased at 11 different shops, all paid for with cash. He'd carefully labeled each one with a number, using a permanent silver marker. He drew out the first one and turned it on, pressed the button and waited for bars.<p>

He briefly pondered making one very important call, then decided it was too early for that one. Not just yet.

Instead he dialed Pierce Martin. It was still early on the west coast, especially for a guy like Pierce, but he didn't want to wait. He had to get this prep work done and get back to the 12th.

The phone had rung 4 times, and he was mentally composing the message when Pierce answered. He sounded like he was still half asleep. "Yo, Pierce here."

"Pierce, it's Rick Castle."

"Hey Rick, long time no speak. How are things in the Big Apple?"

"They've been better, my friend. More on that later. Listen, I wish this could be more of a social call, but it's really business."

Pierce grunted into the phone, sounding like he was repositioning himself in bed, maybe sitting up. When he spoke, there was no sleepiness at all. "What's up?"

"I need your expertise, and maybe some of your contacts. I don't want to discuss it in detail right now, I just need to know if I can still get in touch with you the same way."

"Yeah, the address is still good."

"OK, expect more by tonight."

* * *

><p>The day at the 12th was a nightmare of disappointment and frustration. The DNA on the rifle was not in their system or any other they had access to. Even phenotyping narrowed the field only minimally. Male, Caucasian or possibly Latino, dark hair and eyes.<p>

They had some traffic cam footage from the street where the K9 unit had lost the scent. Three guys who might have been the sniper, they got full facial images on two and a three-quarter angle on the third. All three were busts on facial recognition. They had uniforms going through mug books but little hope of a match.

CSU had backtracked on the trail marked by the K9 unit and dusted every single headstone for five yards on either side of it. No fresh prints. The most recent prints they found, they ran through the system. The only hits were family members that matched the headstones.

The son of a bitch was a ghost. Just like Lockwood.

By 7:30 that evening, he and Ryan and Esposito were starting to chew on furniture and not too far from turning on each other, so Esposito, now the ranking Detective, called it a day and sent them both home.

Castle was two blocks from the precinct, heading for the hospital and looking for a cab, when he remembered that she'd said she would call him. Swallowing his disappointment, he hailed a cab to take him back to the loft.

He found Alexis and his mother sitting up waiting for him. There was nothing spoken, but he sensed the anger, and that's when he realized he hadn't called them all day.


	3. Chapter 3

This one is for the gang at The Old Haunt, especially Stella!

**Disclaimer:** Not my world, just my words.

* * *

><p>The email is addressed from "Secret Santa" with a subject line of "Naughty or Nice? You tell me!"<p>

Castle pulls an old USB thumb drive out of his desk drawer, pops it into one of the side ports on his laptop and waits for the drive to mount. He loads the GPG keyring information from the drive and uses it to authenticate the email attachment. It's from Pierce Martin, and it has _not_ been tampered with.

He decrypts the attachment, sees that it's a zip file, then unzips it into a separate folder. The contents include a bunch of stuff he doesn't really understand: a couple of plain text files, a bin file named TomatoMod (huh?), some other odds and ends. Fortunately, the PDF document from Pierce named ReadThisFirstDipstick will probably explain everything. He opens the document and starts scanning.

He gets five lines into the document, reaches the stuff about randomized multilayer proxies, and immediately pulls out a notepad and pen.

He reads everything through twice, making detailed notes, verifying that he understands _everything_ in that zip file, what the files are for and what he's supposed to do. He has a checklist of hardware to purchase and services to order.

He calls and orders the separate DSL Internet line. Then he grabs a few thousand out of the safe and heads out to buy his equipment. He needs to buy a new dedicated computer (Pierce assures him that a Mac is fine), plus a router (a very specific model, a LinkSys WRT54GL, which Pierce has warned him may be tricky to find) and a list of four usable models of DSL modem. There are about half a dozen additional minor pieces of hardware, all easy to acquire.

He intends to pay cash for everything. There will be _no_ paper trail for any of this other than the DSL line, and there isn't really any way to avoid that; he'll just have to risk it. He returns more than 2 hours later with all the equipment on the list; he had to visit three different stores to find the right router.

He follows the instructions in the PDF to flash the firmware in the LinkSys router using the TomatoMod file, verifies that the router still works afterward, then decides to call it a night. He won't be able to do anything further until the DSL line is activated. Luckily he has a spare phone line that can be switched to DSL, so it won't require an actual visit from the phone guy; they have assured him that the line will be active by the next afternoon.

If he has done everything properly - and Pierce has told him that he will verify it once Castle is done and calls him - he will be able to use the new computer to do online research with _absolute_ anonymity. Nobody, not even _that son of a bitch_, will be able to track him or find out what he's been researching.

It's almost 1:30 and he plans to be at the precinct by 8:00. He takes burner cell #2 out of his pocket and drops it in the top file cabinet drawer, pulls out burner cell #3 and swaps it into the charger for tomorrow. Then he trudges into the bedroom, yanks off his sweater, drops the sweater and his jeans on the floor, and pitches forward into bed.

_Please, please let me get to sleep quickly._

* * *

><p>The bodies are everywhere, and he doesn't have enough hands for all the wounds. He's crawling to and fro, trying to find the one person he <em>has<em> to save, shouting her name over and over but there's no response except screaming in the distance, someone is screaming and it just keeps getting louder and louder and...

He shakes himself into consciousness but the screaming continues, and then he's awake enough to realize that it's...

"Alexis!"

He levitates out of bed, hits the floor running. His feet tangle in the jeans he's left on the floor and he stumbles to his knees, kicks the jeans loose and he's back up, charging across the living room, making a beeline for the stairs with no concern for what might be in his way.

He slams his bare foot into the end table, so hard it flies into the wall, but he barely notices. Then he's pelting up the stairs, taking them three at a time in long strides; he sees his mother coming out of her room at the end of the hall, still pulling on her nightgown, and then he bursts into the room.

_Oh, God_.

She's not even in her bed, she's stumbling around in the center of the room and the _screaming_, it just goes on and on. He slaps frantically at the light switch and sees her clearly, she turns toward the door and her eyes are wide and wild and terrified, flashing blue like winter ice, blind to the room, blind to _him_, her gaze still turned inward, trapped in the inner landscape of nightmare.

He takes two lunging steps forward and sweeps her up into his arms and _still_ she screams, flailing at him blindly, deep scratches in his arms and sides, and time folds back on itself and she's nine years old again, suffering through her last and worst bout of night terrors. All he can do is hold her as he did then and wait, wait for it to pass.

He turns to look at his mother in the doorway, and she's rooted there, horrified, one hand touching her throat, the other flapping back and forth like a panicked bird. She was never here for the night terrors, she was on tour all three times. She looks like she doesn't know whether to come in or to run.

Alexis drags in a huge, panicked, whooping breath and finally the spell is broken because she gets his scent in the breath, the scent that not just her mind but her _body_ knows, knows all the way down to the bone, the smell of a thousand cuddles and ten thousand hugs, and that scent is _warm_ that scent is _safe_ that scent is...

"_Daddy!_ Oh help, daddy, daddy, daddy!" Her body is so tense and shaking that it's like holding a bundle of live wires and then finally, blessedly, she relaxes, folding herself against him and gripping him so hard he can barely draw breath.

He steps to the bed and sits down, holding her in his lap and stroking her hair, whispering nonsense sounds of comfort into her ear, trying to get himself back together so he can be strong for her.

He hears a soft gasp at the door, knows it must be his mother, but when he looks up she is just disappearing, and then he hears her footsteps on the stairs. He doesn't move, just sits and holds his daughter and waits to see whether she will talk or go back to sleep.

Her breathing slows, gets more regular, but he can hear the soft sobs as he sits and waits.

Martha reappears, with washcloths and something else in her hands. She says nothing, just moves across the room and kneels down at his feet. He's confused until he looks down and sees that he's bleeding into the carpet. She's got washcloths and ice and bandages that she's going to apply to his right big toe, where he kicked the end table so hard he's split the toenail right down to the quick.

He catches her eye as she glances up, mouths "Thank you." She just nods.

A few minutes later, he's almost certain that Alexis has dozed back off. He's about to lay her back down when she speaks.

"You didn't slip."

His heart catches in his throat because he knows instantly what she means.

"Sweetie, I'm OK, I'm right here."

She's silent again for a long time, and when she speaks again, it seems so disconnected that he thinks he's misheard her, or that she's now really drifting back into sleep.

"Kick-Ass."

"What?"

"You remember, that movie a while ago with the guy who wants to be a superhero? He's dressed up in the green wetsuit?"

"Yes... You didn't see that, did you?"

"No, I just saw the previews, but there was this other guy who called himself Red Mist. I remember wondering why anyone would pick that name. But now I get it. He wasn't really a good guy, was he?"

"No, honey, he wasn't."

"I saw the look on your face; when you saw the sniper. It was just you and Beckett facing in that direction, but she was looking at her notes and didn't see. Only you did."

"Yes, I did." He doesn't want to think about that, still trying to put the shame over his hesitation in a box.

"I was looking at Beckett when she said how lucky she was to have someone to stand with her; I knew she was talking about herself, because she looked at you when she said it. Did you see that?"

He chokes up then, unable to speak, and just nods his head. He hadn't stood with her, he'd dragged her away from it, physically carried her off, literally kicking and screaming. He still couldn't fathom why she'd paid him that honor.

"So then I was looking at you, and I saw you squint like you were trying to see something better. Then you turned and you tried to run, to get to her, and you stumbled. Your feet slipped on the grass. I didn't understand what you were doing, so I looked back at her and... I saw it. I saw the bullet hit her."

_Oh God._ He still can't speak, but he doesn't have to because she continues.

"I remember the look on her face, she was stunned, like she couldn't believe it was happening. But what I really remember is that when the bullet hit her, blood _sprayed_ out, like perfume out of a bottle. There was this spray hanging in the air in front of her for a second, and then you hit her and she went down.

"So that's what 'Red Mist' means." Her breath catches for a moment. "I wish I didn't know."

His mother was right. He has a hard time finding the right words when it really counts. What can he say? How do you give a young girl back her innocence? Somewhere in the back of his mind, he's adding this to the list.

_You'll pay for this, too, you son of a bitch._

"But tonight... you didn't slip, and instead of her, it was you. And it wasn't just a mist, it _exploded_. It wasn't a mist, it was a fog, and I was trying to find you but it was in my eyes and my hair and my clothes. I was breathing it in and it tasted like pennies, I was _breathing_ it, your b- b-" And then she's weeping again, exhausted helpless sobs that shook her whole body.

"Oh, baby, I'm fine, I'm fine, nobody is coming after me. Kate's going to be alright too, I know she will. It's going to be OK, it will all be OK..."

He sits and rocks her, holding her close until the sobs quiet and she's breathing normally again. Then he picks her up and carries her downstairs, and for the first time in nearly half her life, he tucks her in to his bed and curls up next to her, holding her until she falls asleep.

* * *

><p>Morning comes and he's awake well before her. He has breakfast going when she comes out, scrambled eggs with havarti and turkey bacon, cooked extra crispy, her favorite.<p>

She sees the remnants of the end table where they still rest against the wall. The glass top is cracked from corner to corner but by some miracle never actually broke apart.

She looks embarrassed about the previous night, that she needed to be coddled like a little girl. He avoids the subject and instead loads up her plate and sets it down noisily on her side of the counter, drawing attention to the meal without saying a word.

He tops off a glass of orange juice and pushes it across the counter to her, smiling at her as he does so.

She looks at the food, then looks up at him, her face set in determined lines. "Don't go back, Dad. I know how much she means to you, and I know I can't make you do anything. But I don't want you to go back."

With that, she turns and goes to the stairs, leaving the food untouched. She doesn't look back.

* * *

><p>She returns an hour later, dressed for school. She finds him in his office, where he is staring at his laptop, seeing but not understanding the words on the screen. He has never felt so conflicted in his life. Will he ever make an easy decision again?<p>

"Dad?" He doesn't look up. "Dad!"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"I love you, Daddy. That never changes, no matter what. But I had to tell you the truth. I'm sorry."

"Alexis, you will _never_ have to be sorry for telling me the truth."

She looks at him then, desperate to ask the question, but too mindful of his feelings to do it. She's told him what she wants; that's all she can do. He will do what he thinks he has to. No matter what.

"I'll be done with classes at 4:00. I'll come straight home."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** Not my world, just my words.

* * *

><p>When Jesus saw Nathanael approaching, he said of him, "Behold now a true Israelite, there is no guile in him."<br>- The Gospel According to St John, Chapter 1, Verse 47

* * *

><p>Castle arrives at the 12th a few minutes after 8:00; a shift change is ongoing. The lobby is full of uniforms, with a sprinkling of plainclothes here and there. Coffee cups in abundance, but he himself is not carrying any coffee. He'd been standing in line at the usual shop before it hit him. The habit was that damned strong. He left without buying anything.<p>

He's a dozen paces from the elevator when he notices that something is... wrong. It's too quiet. He stops, looks around, wondering what's up.

They are _all_ looking at him. The conversations, joking, general BS have all ceased.

_Oh, crap_. Of course they all know. Anyone who hadn't been on duty had been at the funeral. More than a hundred cops had seen it, and word moved fast at the 12th. By now everyone would know.

Velasquez is the first. He would always remember that, how the compact, matronly woman pivoted on her heel, a tight smile on her face as she faced him fully, back ramrod-straight. He's struck once again by how much she resembles a younger Dame Judi Dench, when she played Titania in that marvelous Peter Hall adaptation of "A Midsummer Night's Dream." Then her hand snaps up in a picture-perfect salute. Then another, and another, until every man and woman in the room stands at attention.

He had known that he was not just tolerated but accepted here at the precinct, had been for a long time. But this is something else.

Too choked up to speak, all he can do is nod and try not to make too big a fool of himself. In his secret heart, he would never believe he deserved this, but apparently to them it didn't matter that he'd failed; what mattered was that every cop at the 12th knew that Rick Castle had been willing to take a bullet for Kate Beckett. His partner. Badge or no badge, that made him one of them.

Then it's over. The saluting hands drop, conversations resume. Business as usual here at the 12th. He decides to take the stairs; he can't trust himself to keep it together while waiting for the elevator.

* * *

><p>Ryan and Esposito are both at their desks when he walks in. Ryan is intently studying something on his computer as he cradles the desk phone to his ear, but Esposito sees him walk into the bullpen and raises a hand in greeting. "Yo, Castle. Hope you got some sleep, man, a lot of work to do today."<p>

Castle hauls over a chair from next to Karpowski's desk (both Ryan and Esposito notice that he doesn't grab his usual chair from its spot next to Kate's desk, despite the fact that it's closer), plops into it. "You've got something new?"

Ryan speaks up at that. "We got more traffic and security cam footage. Some guys in tech have been trying to map it into a timeline. They think they've pieced together the movements of two of our three possibles from the point they left the cemetery until they got into vehicles. Still working on the third."

"And?"

"One of them was picked up by a cab, six blocks from the cemetery. We got the plate; I'm on hold with their dispatcher right now to find out who was driving that cab at the time."

"What about the other?"

Esposito pipes up. "Walked to a public lot three blocks from the cemetery. Got into a blue late-model Saturn and headed north. We lost the trail just four blocks later; no cams for a seven block stretch, and he never showed up again on the road he was on."

"So maybe he parked somewhere?"

"That, or hopefully he turned somewhere in those seven blocks. We're looking for more cams on either side of the northbound route."

"What about a plate?"

"No clear shots of the plate; unies are on their way to the lot to see if they can get a plate number from an attendant."

"What about -" Ryan holds up his hand. Espo and Castle both clam up.

"Yes, this is Detective Kevin Ryan, NYPD. I need the name of a driver who was on duty two days ago..."

Castle takes the opportunity to turn his attention to the (attempted) murder board, spend a few moments absorbing the information there. They have leads now, tenuous as those leads might be.

* * *

><p>And then they don't. By lunch time, with the help of the cabbie, they'd tracked down the first suspect. He's a plumber, of all things, and was visiting his father's grave that day on the 5th anniversary of the man's death.<p>

Around 5:30, Castle spots the Saturn in footage from an ATM camera two blocks east of the street they'd lost it on. Focusing on that street, they manage to track the car another 4 blocks before they finally get a clear shot of the license plate.

They run the plate, get a name. The man turns out to be an ex-marine who now manages the security team at Madison Square Garden. Visiting the graves of his wife and daughter; they had been killed in a car accident the previous winter.

For the sake of thoroughness, they run both men's financials and phone records. No red flags.

Another bust.

That leaves the 3rd possible, the one they got only a three-quarter angle on. Still no hits on any cam footage.

At about 7:30, a uniform stops by Ryan's desk to inform him that they've finished going through all the mug books with no hits on the 3rd guy.

By 8:15 they've still got nothing; Esposito calls it a night, sends them home.

* * *

><p>He shares a tense, quiet dinner with Alexis and his mother. Conversation, by mutual, unspoken agreement, is limited to mundane topics like Alexis' scores on two exams from the previous week, or the (negative) outcome of a recent audition by Martha.<p>

They run out of topics before they run out of food.

Alexis goes to her room to study after they finish cleanup.

Which leaves him alone with his mother, not a good idea just now. He's sure she's got plenty of input for him, and she doesn't disappoint.

But what she has to say surprises him.

"You can't let them direct the show, Richard."

"What?"

"I'm betting Alexis doesn't want you to have anything to do with all of this right now."

The sting of this morning's confrontation is still a little too fresh for him to say anything flippant, so all he does is nod.

"I understand why you're doing this, and that you're being honest with yourself about it. You've put yourself in danger. But that's done, no way to change it now."

He simply looks at her, waiting to see where she's going with this.

"There's no way for you to know that they won't try again. With Detective Beckett or with you. Even if you leave it alone, there's no guarantee they won't do it anyway. And if you leave it alone, they control everything, they have all the initiative. They're directing the show."

He relaxes then, seeing that they have been thinking along the same lines. Taking no action _is_ an action. And if the fight could come to them anyway, they'd better not be fighting blind. Or any more blind than they already are.

"Thank you, mother. You'll back me on this? With Alexis?"

"I will, on one condition."

"And that would be...?"

"You take no unnecessary risks. Let your friends Kevin and Javier handle anything... physical. Anything out on the street. And you need to use the car service to go to the precinct; don't make yourself a target. Going out in public on a predictable schedule? What are you thinking?"

Damn. He _hadn't_ thought of that. Walking to the precinct or taking a cab every day? He might as well tape a bullseye on his back.

"I agree, mother. Thank you again."

"Your mother loves you, kiddo."

"Your son loves you, too."

As he heads for his office, she turns away to put the wine glasses back into the cabinets, and finally the tears can fall.

_Never let 'em see you cry._

* * *

><p>"Y'know, Rick, it's kinda weird that I keep getting calls from you on different numbers from day to day. Makes me think you're up to something."<p>

"It's going to get weirder. We need to talk about that tonight, but first I want you to check out my computer setup."

"You got the separate DSL line? Everything's up and running?"

"Yeah, when I walked in tonight the lights were all solid green on the modem. Nothing is blinking except the 'activity' light; looks just like my old one now."

"Good. Get on the new computer and hit the first web address I put in that last section of the PDF."

Castle can hear him typing on the other end of the line as he opens a browser on the new laptop and types in the first URL.

"Ready for me?"

"Yeah, go."

Castle hits the enter key.

"OK, looks good. Looks like you're coming through a proxy in Denver. Now go to the next address."

He opens a second tab, types in the second address.

"Now you're in Tucson. You sure do get around, my friend. Go back to the first website, and click around on the site a bit. Pick links at random."

After Castle has loaded half a dozen pages, Pierce stops him.

"OK, good. Now go back to the second site and do the same thing."

After another three or four page loads, he starts to get impatient. "What's the verdict?"

"The router is doing its job, it's keeping track of sessions."

"Which means?"

"The proxies rotate when you go to new addresses, not when you repeatedly hit the same address. That will look normal. A bunch of hits that change IP address from one page load to the next might raise red flags. But this way, you'll rotate between 2 or 3 dozen addresses as you go from site to site."

"The pages are loading sorta slow."

"Price you pay, Rick. It's because you're going through 3 to 5 layers of proxy machines every time you load a page. Some of the proxies are overseas. That adds latency. 186,000 miles per second, man. It's not just a good idea, it's the law."

"Thanks, Pierce."

"You going to tell me what this is about? And don't tell me research. I read the papers."

"Pierce, I'm not sure I should..."

"Bullshit. You were a crappy liar at Edgewick, you're a crappy liar now."

"This may be a case of 'the less you know, the better.'"

Pierce is stubborn. Part of the DNA. "It's got something to do with that cop you've been tailing."

"How did you..."

"What, you call me for help because you think I'm stupid?"

"Of course not..."

"I got online after you first called. Pulled up local papers for New York. I saw that she was shot. At another cop's funeral, no less. What are you mixed up in, buddy?"

"OK, yes, it has to do with that." He won't say anything more, just waits Pierce out.

"Too late to back out?"

"Too late to back out."

Silence on the line. He can picture Pierce at the other end of the call, probably chewing on something. A pencil. A knuckle. Maybe his lower lip.

"OK, what else do you need?"

"Nothing at this point. I'm going to start tracing down leads. Ideas that have occurred to me. If I run up against any brick walls, I'll be in touch."

"And you're concerned that whomever you're going after might be monitoring your web activity, right?"

"Damn straight. You would not _believe_ the reach this bastard has."

"Hey buddy, don't knock bastards. Some of my best friends are bastards."

At this, Castle can't help but laugh. A good, solid, full-force laugh, the first since Lockwood broke out. By the time he gets his voice back, he can hear Pierce chuckling at the other end of the line.

"Thanks, brother, I needed that."

"Don't use your normal email for any of this. Even encrypted. If anyone picks up on the fact that you're in touch with me at all, it could be a giveaway; some of my exploits are a matter of public record, you know. Register some free email addresses, and use those instead."

"That's my plan. I'll send emails to you tonight, so you have the addresses on file. Check your spam box, just in case. Anything I send, I'll encrypt it with your key and sign it with mine."

"I've taught you well, grasshopper."

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes later, Castle hangs up the phone. The details of their collaboration are now hammered out; secure lines of communication have been agreed upon, and Pierce knows his role.<p>

Anything shady, Pierce will contract out to members of his own network of contacts, and handle disbursing Castle's money. Castle has bulldozed him into a promise that he will not take any risks personally. It's bad enough to be using him as a go-between.

He spends the next two hours getting the lay of the land. He needs information like he needs air right now. First, to build his possible suspect pool. Then, to start whittling it down. It's going to be a numbers game.

A grim smile touches his lips. Now he's ready to play.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** Not my world, just my words.

* * *

><p><em>She hasn't called anyone. It's not just you. She hasn't called anyone.<em>

It's his mantra. He hasn't heard from her in over ten days.

By day four, he was starting to get nervous.

By day five, his stomach was in knots, and his writer's imagination was tormenting him with every horrible possibility. She'd remembered what he said, and freaked out. She hadn't remembered what he said, but just didn't care.

By day six, his mind was little more than a rat on a wheel, going over and over everything he'd said and done, searching frantically for the reason, _any_ reason, for her silence.

Like a gift from God, on day seven he walked into the precinct and Ryan informed him that Jim Beckett had called them with an update. She was due to be released in another three days, at which point he would be taking her to his cabin in the Poconos.

Ryan, clearly concerned but not wanting to actually _say_ anything, had told Castle in the most offhand manner he could manage that Mr. Beckett apologized for the fact that Katie hadn't been in touch, herself.

Castle couldn't restrain himself at that point, but at least had the presence of mind to keep his tone light. "So, you haven't heard from her?"

"No, not at all. I don't think Javier or Lanie have heard either. I'm sure Javi would have mentioned it. And I'm sure Lanie would have told Javi."

"I could see her wanting to... disconnect for a while."

"Sure, sure."

With that, the subject was dropped.

And now every time he starts to get crazy, he repeats his mantra until it passes. It's enough; he can focus, he can work.

It's crucial that he can do that, so crucial that he has the will to keep doing it day after day.

He's already starting to have trouble keeping his mind compartmentalized, to avoid spilling anything to the boys that he shouldn't.

After all, he's now a felon twice over.

* * *

><p>The first and biggest tasks were to get a list of every man who had worked as a police officer in a New York precinct, or as an attorney at the District Attorney's office, from 1990 until 1992.<p>

This turned out to be a terrifyingly difficult job. It was relatively simple to get a list of all current officers who had been officers during that time period. He'd contacted Pierce, sent him $10k in money orders, and two days later he had the list.

"That's the easy part, Rick. All it took was hacking into their current personnel systems. I knew a guy who already had a backdoor, he'd zombie'd some old Windows boxes and sniffed passwords off their internal networks."

"Like that means anything to me. Except the zombies part. Romero zombies or Snyder zombies?"

"Fast zombies _suck_, man. Never mind. Your big problem is you need to get lists that were current as of '92."

"I get it. A lot of people have come and gone in the last 20 years."

"Yeah, you're going to have to piece those lists together."

"OK, Pierce, what do you suggest? I've been thinking about pension funds, health insurance records, things like that."

"Your best bet is to go after their pension databases, they're likely to be more complete. Not everyone would have made insurance claims. Even those who did, most of the claims will be minor; prescriptions, office co-pays, things like that. Those things get purged from their systems after five years, maybe seven. Only major procedures get kept forever."

"Yes, I figured as much. It was just an idea."

"The problem with either the pension fund records or the insurance information is that those aren't stored on the same servers as their current HR systems. They'll be managed by the pension funds or insurance companies at their own data centers. There are more targets than just two."

"I know. I've already turned up four possible pension funds so far. Some of the funds that were current in '92 have since been acquired by other management firms."

"Every system we add to the target list, the odds of getting caught go up. Listen, I know the guys who work security at these big finance houses. They are _not_ stupid. If we have to go after half a dozen of those, especially if they are rush jobs, the odds are we will set off some warning bells, at the very least."

"Could we do it in such a way that if they _do_ get on to us, it will look like just a plain old criminal attack? The Russian Mafia does a lot of that these days, am I right? Can we pin it on them?"

"Not as easy as you might think. The things we would do to lay a false trail could just as easily backfire. We could end up with both your sleestak _and_ the Russian Mob after us. Might as well just eat a bullet and save ourselves the suffering. We don't want to leave a trail _at all_."

A few minutes pass in silence as they both chew on the problem.

"I'm not coming up with anything, Rick, what about you?"

"Aaaahhh, I got nothin'."

"We shouldn't move on any plan we're not both happy with. I know time is a factor, though."

"Listen, I haven't eaten since lunch and it's already 11:30. Let me get something and I'll call you back."

* * *

><p>He goes to the kitchen, hoping for some of the lasagna that Alexis made two nights before, but the pan isn't in the refrigerator. Disappointed, he snoops around a bit more but finds nothing that won't take work to put together.<p>

With a quick catalog in mind of the ingredients he has on hand, he starts trying to come up with something to cook, going back to his office for the whiskey he left on his desk. By the time he's picked up the glass, he's decided it will be simpler to just order in.

He pulls out his iPhone, planning to call out, when a thought occurs to him. The freezer!

And sure enough, there is the rest of the lasagna, vacuum-sealed and frozen. His little homebody, at it again. He snags two packages, thinks better of it and puts one back.

The microwave hasn't been going ten seconds when it hits him. The _freezer_. What do you use a freezer for? To _store_ things.

* * *

><p>"That was a pretty quick dinner. I remember you being a slow eater."<p>

"Zip it, Pierce; dinner's still heating up. I was thinking, what if we target _archives_ of the old personnel databases? They were already digitized well before 1990, we know that."

"Yeah, but they probably don't store the old records for more than 10 years. Especially for people who have left. Which we're pretty sure your guy did, right?"

"Yes, yes, but I remember reading something during my reconnaissance, a few days ago. I think there was a big changeover from one records system to another in the early or mid-90s. Let me check my bookmarks."

Less than five minutes later, Castle has it.

"They switched to Oracle in 1994! And before they did that, they probably copied out everything from the old system."

"Do we know what system they used before?"

"Not mentioned in this press release, but I'm sure we can find out. Listen, I'm going to dig into this and get everything I can. If I finish up before 3:00, is it OK to call you?"

"No problem, Rick. I'm always up until midnight, at least."

* * *

><p>Pierce picks up the phone at 11:45, to hear Castle's triumphant cry of "Victory!"<p>

"OK, lay it on me, Rick."

"I have the name and version of the system they were using before the changeover. I have the name of the consulting company that helped the NYPD and the rest of the NY city government make the switch, as well as their current web address; they're still in business."

"Awesome! How the hell did you manage that?"

"That would be telling. The question is, if I get you this information, do you think we can figure out where the old records were stored? And if they still exist?"

"No guarantees, but there is a pretty good chance. Email me the information and I'll get onto it. You'd probably better send out another 5 or 10k, I'll probably have to pay some guys for this."

"I just sent 25,000 for you to have on hand. You should get it tomorrow or the day after."

* * *

><p>He sits at his laptop, gearing up to work on <em>Heat Rises<em>. It's torture getting in the groove; his mind itches to get back to the case. But there are obligations to meet, and appearances to keep up.

_She hasn't called anyone. It's not just you. She hasn't called anyone._

Two days since Jim Beckett called the precinct, and his conversation with Ryan. Three days since his last contact with Pierce.

He's keeping it together. He has confidence that Pierce will contact him when he has something worthwhile. And by previous agreement, they will always contact each other by email every third day, even if there is nothing to report or request.

It's 12:30 am and Castle is just finishing up the requested rewrites on the 12th and 13th chapters, when the new computer beeps as an email comes in. He rolls over, types in his password, checks the browser window. It's from Pierce. He decrypts it quickly, sees it's just a short text message:

_Call me. Usual number._

He grabs the burner cell from his shirt pocket.

"Pierce Martin here."

"Pierce, it's Rick."

"How many of those damned numbers do you have, man? I'm running out of versions of your name for my contacts. I'm gonna start using Edgewick nicknames pretty soon. Do you *really* want me to do that?"

"Ahh, not really. I've got 11 of them that I'm cycling through. Am I paranoid, or what?"

"The question isn't: are you paranoid..."

"...it's: are you paranoid _enough_. Sure. OK, why the email?"

"I got the information we were looking for. _If_ the records exist, I'm almost positive we know where they are stored."

"Fantastic!"

"Eh, not so much."

"Why, what's the problem?"

"They're in archival storage at a high security facility. The consulting firm that managed the systems transition in '93 and '94 has long-term contracts with two data storage facilities. One of them is in NYC. The other is in Pennsylvania, in an old converted limestone mine. They didn't start using the one in Pennsylvania until about 7 years ago. The NYC facility is our target."

"I guess I still don't see the problem."

"Don't you get it, Rick? They're not online! They're just a bunch of old data tapes sitting in a lockbox on a shelf somewhere."

"So we're going to have to actually break in to get them."

"Exactly."

"OK, but before we do that, we need to know how to find them inside the facility. What lockbox are they in? Which shelf?"

"Yeah, of course. Only... remember the part where we have to _break in_ to get them? Not my bailiwick, buddy. I don't even _know_ anyone who does that sort of work."

Rick breaks into a sharklike grin, one that might give his friend pause, if he could see it. "You leave that to me."

* * *

><p>The door opens less than ten seconds after his third knock.<p>

Caine Powell is resplendent in a Derek Rose smoking jacket, snifter of brandy in hand. "To what do I owe the pleasure, dear boy?"

"I need your help, old friend."

Caine's head cants to one side, lips compressed, examining him carefully for a second. Then the smile returns. "Come in, come in, and tell me all about it..."

Two glasses of brandy later, Castle has outlined the problem at hand.

"And you're sure you can't tell me more? Why you are doing this?"

"Safer for you not to know."

"I should be the judge of that."

"You have my word, I've kept nothing from you that you need to know to do the job."

"So, two break-ins, both of them my kind of job. A ghost passing through the walls. How much time between the jobs?"

"I can't say. Once you plant the device, I'm not sure how long it will take to get the information we need. It could be as little as a day. It might be several weeks."

"Let me do some research. I will let you know in a few days. Let us say: Friday."

Castle nods at this, then pauses for a moment, uncomfortable. "I'm prepared to... pay for your services."

"Nonsense, dear boy. I told you before we were even. And frankly, I'm bored much of the time these days."

"At least let me pay for your expenses..."

"The expenses will be trifling. Think nothing of it." He leans back, dismissing the subject, picks up his glass. "Now then, how is Martha?"

"Delighted with the evening at Le Cirque. Disappointed that nothing followed."

"Perhaps I should drop her a line."

"Maybe you should, at that."

* * *

><p>He's examining his face in the bathroom mirror, the dark circles that are starting to form. It's now two weeks, one day and seventeen hours since she last spoke to him.<p>

His stomach churns acid. He keeps seeing not her living face in the hospital room, but the blood-spattered mask from the ambulance. They kept putting saline into her, trying to keep her blood pressure up.

She flatlined four minutes out from the hospital. Lanie went crazy, pushing the paramedics aside and doing chest compressions herself. He remembers the cracking sound as the cartilage between some of the ribs and her sternum let go.

_She hasn't called anyone. It's not just you._

The burner cell vibrates against his chest.

"I can do it, Rick. It won't even be terribly difficult."

"What's your plan?"

"Safer for you not to know."

"That's fair. When do you go in? I need to coordinate things, get you the equipment."

"I will do it Sunday night. Can you match that timetable?"

"Of course. I already have everything. I can pass along the word any time you're ready."

* * *

><p>Powell calls him at precisely 1:57 am on Monday, the 6th of June.<p>

"It's done, Rick. Tell your friend to test."

Castle hangs up, calls Pierce. Pierce picks up before the end of the first ring.

"Rick! What news?"

"Check it. You should be able to connect now."

Rick hears keys clicking in the background. He leans forward in his desk chair, bracing a hand against the desk, fighting a brief swirl of vertigo. So tired now. God, he's so tired.

"Holy crap, Rick. We're good. I'm in! How the hell did you do it?"

"Church and State, Pierce, let's keep them separate. I have to make another call."

"Sure, sure. I'll email you as soon as I get anything."

Rick hangs up, immediately calls Powell. "We're good, old friend. Get the hell out of there."

"On my way. I'll email to that address you gave me once I'm in the clear. You can call tomorrow, if you wish."

"I will."

He switches off the phone, leans his head forward onto the desk. He'll just rest his eyes for a minute...

* * *

><p>Two days later, Pierce emails to inform him that they've been able to crack the records tracking database at the storage facility. The original system archives are still there. He passes the information to Powell.<p>

The following Saturday morning, Caine contacts him by email.

That night, Caine arrives to escort Martha to the Met. He slips into Rick's office as they wait for her to come down, places a small case on Rick's desk.

When they leave, Castle opens the case and inspects the contents. There are roughly a dozen 8mm data cartridges, some disks that look like a weird cross between a CD and a floppy disk, and a few odd paper documents.

He calls Pierce, describes the contents of the case to him in detail.

"Sorry Rick, you're not going to find drives that can read those at Best Buy, not in 2011. You might find them in a used computer equipment shop, but it would be a stroke of luck. You'll have to send them to me. I've got the equipment here."

Another two days' delay, maybe more. He wants to scream, to break things. There's no patience left in him.

"I'll FedEx them on Monday. Send them to the same address as the money orders?"

* * *

><p><em>She hasn't called anyone.<em>

It's now four weeks, five days and one hour since he walked out of her hospital room.

She said she would _call_ him. She said she would _call_.

_She hasn't called anyone._

He's long since lost track of how many times he's told himself this. Thankfully, it still has power.

What will he do when it no longer does?

The reflection in the mirror is almost a stranger. He's getting by on two or three hours of sleep a night, with odd catnaps thrown in here and there during the day. The schedule is wearing him down. He knows the crash is coming, but seems powerless to stop himself, to change course.

He's not spending the hours at the precinct that he was before. Espo put a stop to that, the macho one-upmanship that set in when they'd had no new leads in over a week. Every day, coming in earlier and leaving later. Nobody wanted to be the last one in or the first one to go. Two days ago, Esposito took him aside.

"Castle, you gotta stop this."

"Stop what?" Stupid thing to say, but then, he's pretty stupid in general these days.

"Stegner told me you showed up at _4:30_ this morning."

"Yeah, so? Nothing to do at home."

Which wasn't true at all, of course. There was plenty to do at home. He burned up half his nights writing (still got that deadline, oh yeah baby, _Heat's_ still gotta _Rise_) and the other half narrowing down his own leads.

"So, you show up here at 4:30, then Ryan or I have to show up at 4:00. You stay until 10, we gotta stay 'til 10:30. We're gonna drive each other into the ground, bro. And that doesn't do _anyone_ any good. Not us, not Beckett, not the citizens coming through the door. You're free to focus on nothing but her case. We aren't."

And to that, he'd had nothing to say. Javier was right.

For the past two days, he's forced himself to wait until 8:00 to go in. It just means he stays up that much later.

He's actually managed to stay on schedule with _Heat Rises_, ahead of schedule, in fact. Procrastination has been a non-issue. His biggest problem is that he can't make himself stop, slow down, relax. He's like a machine with a busted governor. How long until he spins out of control completely?

* * *

><p>Seven weeks, six days and two hours.<p>

The reflection in his mirror terrifies him. He'll shave today. That helps. Sometimes.

Had he thought he was tired before? Had he _really_? The thought is somewhere between funny and tragic. He is afraid to laugh, though. If he starts, he may not stop. He's on the ragged edge of hysteria, all the time now.

He has given up trying to hide it from Alexis and his mother. A fool's mission, anyway.

He catches a ten minute nap between the loft and the precinct. Thank God for the car service. He could never sleep in a cab.

On his way to the break room, he doesn't notice the abnormal quiet in the bullpen, room for nothing in his mind but caffeine, sweet caffeine, blessed caffeine. Ryan is there, filling his mug with the drip crap that he sometimes still drinks for reasons Castle can't begin to comprehend.

"Morning, Ryan."

"Morning, Castle. Get your coffee and get your ass to the desk."

The profanity is so uncharacteristic of Ryan that it actually cuts through the haze and catches his attention.

"What's up? Do you have something new?" _The bank!_ "Did you find something on the bank idea?"

"Yeah, we did. Just get the caffeine and hustle."

Esposito and Ryan are both sitting quietly and waiting for him when he steps out of the break room. Their expressions are... blank. Poker faces. What the hell?

Esposito seems to be having trouble controlling his face. His jaw muscles keep clenching. "Sit down, Castle, we don't have much time."

"What are you talking about?"

"Just sit down and shut up. Your idea panned out. We think we've found the bank they were using. Ryan? Bring him up to speed."

"Problem is, the bank's been shut down for almost 14 years. We're going to have to track down the old bank records. All we've found so far is some random press releases and their old articles of incorporation. We'll have to track down the officers listed on it, see if we can get in touch. I've got all of the information we've found so far. It's in that envelope next to your coffee mug."

Esposito cuts in. "Take it, Castle. Put it in your coat pocket."

"Guys, not that I'm not happy we've got leads again, but you're starting to freak me out. What's going on?"

"Just take it. _Right now_."

Castle find himself tucking the envelope into his pocket almost before he realizes it. Espo has a hell of a command voice. "OK, OK, now what's up?"

"You're -"

"Mr. Castle!"

Ryan curses under his breath, so thick and foul that Rick blinks in disbelief, even as he turns toward the voice.

The new captain. He'd heard that they had a new permanent captain assigned. Fitzgerald was going back to Narcotics.

"Yes, Captain?"

"My office, if you please."

* * *

><p>Five minutes later, he steps back out, closes the door behind him. He looks to his left, sees Ryan and Esposito, the looks on their faces. He musters a smile, knowing it must look hideous, but feeling like he owes it to them, anyway.<p>

He looks to his right, at the desk. _Her_ desk, and the chair he hasn't occupied in two months. He turns halfway back to the door, reaching for the phone in his pocket. He'll make the call, get Robert on the phone. The mayor can make it happen again.

_What's the point?_

He pauses, phone in hand, so exhausted he can't think, can't feel his body...

_She hasn't called anyone. It's not just you. She hasn't called anyone._

The mantra has lost its power. Now he _knows_ what happens. He looks at the phone like it's some alien artifact, puts it back in his pocket.

He turns back to Ryan and Esposito, and their faces are the last straw. Will this be the last time he sees them, here, in this place that now feels so much like home? He can't even smile, just manages a forlorn shrug.

Then he turns and walks toward the elevator. As he passes Kate's desk, he reaches out, brushes his fingertips across the silly little elephants she keeps there as paperweights.

_Goodbye, Kate._

* * *

><p>"Oh my God, Dad! Dad, are you OK? Daddy! <em>DADDY!<em>"

He blinks, slow and druggy. His eyes won't focus. Alexis is a blur. Where is he?

He hears a door opening. Front door? Is he... in the hall?

"Gram! Gram, come quick!"

The back of his head hurts. He reaches back, feels the spot. His fingertips come back with blood on them.

He tries to sit up, then, failing that, tries to roll onto his side. He gets up onto one elbow, then his hands and knees. He reaches up, grips the door frame with one nerveless hand.

He has just managed to regain his feet when Alexis and Martha burst back through the door. They're on him in an instant, Alexis on his right, Martha on his left, half-walking, half-carrying him through the door.

"Richard, you're bleeding!"

"Must have... fallen..."

"Gram, the couch, let's get him to the couch!"

An eternity later, he feels the couch against the back of his knees, collapses onto it, unutterable relief. He slumps sideways onto the cushions. He can feel Alexis' hands, cool and gentle, on his face, his chest, his arms.

Martha returns with ice, a damp washcloth. She puts it to the lump on the back of his head, holds it there.

"Gram, I've got it. Get a flashlight, a penlight. I think he has one in his top left desk drawer."

Moments later, brilliant light is flashing in his eyes; she's peeled his lids back like grape skins.

"I don't know, his pupils are even, but that's all I know to check for. Maybe we should call 911."

"No, Alexis, 'm'ok. Just let me sleep."

"Dad, no! Not if you have a concussion."

"Dr. Phelps..."

"That's right! Gram, Dr. Phelps, he's down on the 3rd floor. The doorman will know what room. Will you watch him?"

"Go, dear, go."

* * *

><p>Alexis returns 15 minutes later with Dr. Phelps, complete with an old-school doctor's bag in hand.<p>

He clucks over Castle, checks his reflexes, checks his pupil responses, checks the back of his head. When he's done, he lets Castle lie back down and pulls a blanket over him.

Taking Alexis and Martha aside, he informs them that there are no signs of a concussion.

"But I have to tell you, it's just about the worst case of physical exhaustion I've ever seen. I've volunteered at the marathon for the last 3 years, and the folks that collapsed on the route were in better shape. When is the last time he slept a full night?"

"Dr. Phelps, he hasn't been sleeping for weeks. Since late May."

"And he hasn't seen anyone about it? Why not?"

"I _tried_ to get him to go, to do something, but he just wouldn't _listen!_"

"Well, normally I would say to just let him sleep, but I'm still nervous about the head wound. Concussion doesn't always present immediately. Cerebral edema can take time to develop."

He takes out a card, jots his cell phone number on the back.

"Try to wake him up every four hours or so, and check his pupils; if you're at all unsure, call me. If you can't get him to wake up, call me. Also, if you see any clear liquid discharge from his nose or ears, call me immediately. If you have any doubts about anything, call me immediately. I'll get an ambulance here and have him admitted."

Alexis clutches at Martha, but her eyes never leave his face. "I'll remember, Dr. Phelps."

Alexis and Martha follow the doctor's instructions to the letter. The third time they wake him, he asks for water and something to eat. Before he can finish the sandwich Martha prepared him, he's asleep again.

Twenty-two hours after Alexis found him collapsed outside the apartment, he wakes on his own. Alexis and Martha are both sleeping sitting up in the chairs across from the couch.

He blinks, shakes his head, then regrets it immediately as the headache grips him. He reaches back, feels the tender bump on the back of his head, but his fingertips come back clean. No blood.

He gets up, steady on his feet for the first time in days. Alexis is just a few steps away.

"Alexis. Sweetie, wake up."

Her eyes open, those beautiful, ice-blue eyes. He fell in love with those eyes as they gazed up at him from the hospital bassinet.

She doesn't have any words, just wraps her arms around him and buries her head in his chest. Her shoulders shake as she tries to hold back sobs.

"It's OK, Alexis. It's OK."

"Daddy, _please_..."

"OK, baby girl. I'm not going back."


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** Not my world, just my words.

* * *

><p>When I was a boy, with never a crack in my heart.<br>- William Butler Yeats, "The Meditation of the Old Fisherman"

* * *

><p>Castle opens his eyes to early-morning light through the blinds on his bedroom windows. He actually feels... good. The feeling is so unfamiliar it takes him a few seconds to identify it. The day before, he emailed Pierce to let him know he might be offline for a few days. He had an early dinner with Alexis and his mother, then went to bed.<p>

The clock reads 7:20. Doing a quick tally in his mind, he realizes that he's slept almost 38 hours out of the last 48.

Time to take stock of things.

He gets up, shrugs on a robe and shuffles into the kitchen. His mind may be (somewhat) recovered, but his body has aches in places he didn't realize could ache. A hot shower after coffee should help.

Half an hour later, with toast, scrambled eggs, bacon, and two cups of coffee under his belt, he makes his way to the bathroom for a shower. He makes the mistake of stepping on his scale first. The previous two months took more of a toll than he thought. He's gained almost 25 pounds. How did he not realize that?

The shower is heavenly, hot and relaxing. Knots loosen in his shoulders and back, and his mind really starts humming again. He has a lot to think about, and the shower is as good a place as any to start.

Heat Rises is almost complete. He'll finish the last chapter and send it off for edits, as well as completing the edits sent to him for the previous two chapters a few days ago. With any luck, he'll be done with it by the end of the following week, more than two full weeks ahead of deadline. Gina may have a coronary.

With no more demands on his time from the precinct, and the book out of the way, he'll be free to devote as much or as little time to the case as he wishes. The question is, does he still want to?

Why is he doing this, now? Is it just... momentum? Determination to finish what he started? Is he still doing it for her? Is he doing it for himself? His family?

He stares at himself in the mirror and finds that he isn't yet sure of the answers to any of those questions. But as long as he isn't sure, it can't hurt to continue, can it?

The burner cell is in the charger. He pops it out, dials.

"Pierce here."

"Radio Castle, back on the air."

* * *

><p>He begins to settle into a new routine in just a few days. Breakfast with Alexis and (occasionally) Martha. Then he spends the morning and early afternoon writing, brutally forcing himself to focus. He slams through the edits in the course of just three days, finishes the last chapter in another four.<p>

He debates whether to bribe Christine, Gina's executive assistant at Black Pawn, to set up a hidden web cam in Gina's office before he sends off the work. It might be worth it, just to have the expression on her face preserved for posterity. Or blackmail. In the end, he just sends it and waits to hear back.

But he waits very, very busily. He usually finishes up writing around 3:00 or 3:30, then switches gears and works the case. Now that he has the database of possibles, things begin to move more quickly.

He works based on the assumption that the sleestak is either no longer a cop (if he ever was) or is now a very high ranking officer. He has already eliminated the Commissioner (a civilian political appointee in New York City) and the Chief of Department (who transferred as a Captain from the Boston PD in 1998).

Only a few of the deputy commissioners came up through the ranks, and none of those was serving in the NYPD in 1992. He was able to quickly eliminate half of the Bureau Chiefs based on various financial information he gathered on them. A surprising amount of the information he was able to gather in a purely legal manner. Pierce's contacts, combined with about $15,000 of Castle's money, provided the rest.

The total pool of officers he started with was just a little over 40,000. Out of that number, he has been able to eliminate 1,958 who were now dead. A few died in the line of duty, but mostly they passed in the same ways a similar group of civilians would have: accidents, cancer, heart disease, diabetes. Three of them died in animal attacks, of all things.

Out of the remaining 38,000 he has identified 25,000 who are still on the force and serving in positions and at ranks that are perfectly reasonable to expect for an officer with their experience. He doesn't completely eliminate them, but they definitely go to the back of the line. He doesn't think his guy would be content to sweat it out day-to-day as a working officer. No, the one he's after is probably living the high life, now.

That leaves him with about 13,000 question marks to analyze. He spends a lot of time and energy trying to come up with other approaches to the problem, because brute-forcing his way through all 13,000 of these possibilities will take far too long and cost too much money. Not too much money in the sense that it will leave him broke, but too much to not cause suspicion if anyone is monitoring his financials.

In the end, he decides to table the subject and let his subconscious work the problem for a while as he focuses on other things.

* * *

><p>He has been maintaining contact with Ryan and Esposito about the ongoing search for the bank records. None of the original officers listed in the bank's articles of incorporation or the registration papers they've tracked down is still living.<p>

Their efforts are hampered by the fact that they can't disclose the connection to Captain Montgomery without risking Captain Gates opening an investigation. Their research has to be done surreptitiously, sometimes disguised or excused as research for other ongoing cases. The opportunities for this sort of subterfuge are few and far between, so the work is moving at a crawl.

Time for Castle to take over that aspect of the investigation.

After delivering the final manuscript to Black Pawn, Castle starts spending afternoons working on tracking down leads to the old bank officers.

He even spends some time at the public library going through trade publications in the banking industry from the time period they knew the bank to be open, looking for articles that mention it. None of the publications has been digitized, so it's a slow, laborious manual process. He enjoys it, even so; he loves any opportunity to handle and peruse old books. Their feel and their scent has been a comfort to him since his earliest childhood. The public library was his home away from home as a child.

He welcomes the work, the endless diversions in it. At least it keeps his mind occupied, prevents him from dwelling too much on the... painful topics. He thinks of those mostly when going through his morning routine, or while lying in bed, waiting for sleep to claim him. His waking hours are bracketed by these musings, making it difficult to stay focused and effective.

It's more than three months now since he last spoke to her. The grim fact hovers over everything, coloring his routines and invading his thoughts at the most inopportune moments.

Gradually, grudgingly, he realizes that he's mourning. Mourning a relationship that has almost certainly died, if it was ever really there at all. He hates the maudlin feeling that weighs upon him, tries to suck him down when he thinks about it, but he seems powerless to stop it. He can't rationalize it any longer, can't convince himself to hope.

If she cared, she would have called. Emailed. Something.

She has done none of those things.

If "A" implies "B", "not B" implies "not A".

QED.

* * *

><p>A gentle knock on the door frame of his office. Alexis, considerate as always, trying to get his attention but reluctant to disturb him.<p>

"Hi, pumpkin."

"Dad, can we talk?"

"Of course. Come in."

She enters hesitantly, casts about the room looking for a place to stand, to sit. Finally, she seats herself in the chair next to his desk.

"Dad, what have you been working on?"

"What do you mean?"

"You sent the book in over a month ago, but you're still in here working all the time. Are you starting another book? Because you're..." her voice trails off.

"I'm... what?"

"You're not like you are when you're writing. You're never like this."

Of course she sees. She lives here, has always lived here; she knows him, completely. He's been her whole world for most of her life.

For a fleeting instant, he considers lying to her. But the habit of honesty is too strong. He's almost never lied to Alexis. He may have hidden things, not divulged, but deliberately lying to her? He has no talent for it.

"I've been doing some research to help Esposito and Ryan with their case. Ka- Detective Beckett's shooting."

"You said you weren't going back."

"I'm not. Have you seen me going to the precinct?"

"No..."

"That's right. It's just online research and some time spent at the library. I call them or email them when I find anything. I'm not going back, sweetie. I'm... there's no reason to."

She looks at him, steadily, and he sees the sheen in her eyes, realizes that she's almost in tears.

"Baby..."

"No, Dad, it's..." she swipes her sleeve across her eyes. "I'm just sorry."

"Oh, honey, you've got nothing to be sorry about."

"Not that, I'm sorry _for_ you. She hasn't called you or... anything at all, has she?"

"Alexis..."

"No! Dad, it's not right! After everything... how can she _do_ this?"

"Honey, it's... she's been through a lot."

"And you haven't? You were right there, through the whole thing." He opens his mouth, but she cuts him off. "**NO!** Don't defend her! What she's doing, it's... it's _cruel!_"

He wants to say something, but words fail him. She's only giving voice to the thoughts he's been having, isn't she? And he's all out of excuses for Kate, he's burned them all up. So he just looks at her, mute in his misery.

"I'm sorry, Dad, I'm sorry. I shouldn't say it, but... I see you. How you are, and it just... I _hate_ it! I _hate_ that I can't help you!"

"Alexis, stop. You do help, you help every day."

"How? I'm just..."

"You help just by being here. By being you."

Alexis looks down and away, biting her lip and struggling to hold back fresh tears.

"Honey, look at me." When she does, he continues. "I want you to listen, and remember. Your father thinks of you _always_ as a _blessing_. The greatest blessing in his life."

With that, she can no longer keep her distance. She springs from the chair and in three quick steps she's kneeling in front of his chair with her arms around him. He grips her tightly, buries his face in her neck and feels his own tears finally work their way free.

* * *

><p>Later, as the warm light of a late-summer evening starts to fade, they do dishes and put away dinner leftovers in comfortable silence.<p>

"Dad, you're leaving for the book tour in a few days, right?"

"I fly out to San Francisco on Monday, so... three days."

"How long will you be gone?"

"A little over two weeks. I'll be hitting 14 cities, then a few signings here in town. Why?"

"Let's do something tonight!"

"What did you have in mind?"

"Maybe something good is playing at the Angelika?"

"That's my girl. Let's take a look." He grabs his laptop and pulls up a browser, opens the familiar bookmark.

Ten seconds later, they turn to each other with matching expressions of delight. "Forbidden Planet!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** Not my world, just my words.

* * *

><p>She stands at the elevator, dithering. She's early, coming back to work this week. Nobody is expecting her until next week. Once she'd officially cleared the psych evaluation, though, she found she couldn't wait. There was too much weighing on her, and she's tired of putting off the inevitable.<p>

She really has dug a hole for herself. With Lanie, with Castle, with everybody. Especially Castle. What the hell is she going to say to Castle?

All of the things she could say that might help, would mean revealing things she's not ready to reveal yet. All that's left is a bunch of trite justifications, pathetic and unworthy.

She presses the button.

* * *

><p>It's a low-key hero's welcome. The entire floor applauding her, welcoming smiles on all their faces. Velasquez is right there by the elevator, giving her a restrained but friendly squeeze of her shoulder. She even gets a few brief hugs (everyone knows she's not much of a hugger, but some of them just can't resist), lots of smiles and whistles, and "welcome backs" by the dozen.<p>

Finally things calm down and it's just her and Ryan and Esposito. Castle is nowhere to be seen. She tries not to let on that she notices; certainly not that she's _concerned_.

Ryan is the first to speak. "Hey Beckett, what are you doing here? Didn't think you were back until next week."

"Yeah, well, two months listening to crickets in my Dad's cabin was driving me nuts."

Esposito gives her a deadpan look. "It's OK, you don't have to make excuses. We know you missed us; that's why you couldn't stay away."

She rolls her eyes, shakes her head. "Shut up." After a short pause, she continues with, "So, anything?"

The two glance at each other, then Ryan drops the bad news. "Still nowhere."

"What about the grounds keeper?"

Ryan continues, "The guy's a ghost. We ran face hits on surveillance, license plates, nothing panned out."

Esposito pipes in with the little good news they had. "We did get DNA off the weapon, but there were no matches in the system. We flagged it, though."

Ryan voices the question both men are thinking. "Didn't Castle tell you about all this?"

"No."

Esposito is picking up on something, something he _really_ hopes he's wrong about. He tries asking a leading question. "That's weird, why wouldn't he... why would he hide that from you?"

"He's not hiding anything, I just haven't seen him in a while."

"How long is a while?" The suspicion is rapidly becoming a certainty.

"Pretty much since the shooting." She drops the last of her papers on the desk, heads for the break room.

"Why, what happened?" Ryan asks, and Esposito wonders if he's put it together too.

"Nothing happened, I just needed some time."

Esposito knows he's starting to badger her, but doesn't care. So much of Castle's behavior last summer is starting to make so much more sense. "What, he left you alone for three months?"

"You guys, it wasn't his fault, I told him that I would call."

Esposito almost gapes at her, dumbfounded. _Who the hell **are** you? How could you **do** that to the guy?_ "Well, why didn't you?"

It's everything he can do not to just... lay into her. _God, Beckett, you didn't **see** him. How he... drove himself into the ground, for you. And you couldn't even be bothered to **call** him?_ "He was here with us, every day, working the case. For months! He still would be, if the new Captain hadn't kicked him to the curb..."

* * *

><p>So now she's standing in line at a book signing, echoes of a gloomy March morning over a decade ago when she stood in line for 2 hours at another book store waiting to get his signature on her copy of <em>When it Comes to Slaughter<em>.

The only difference - a big difference - is that she's not trying to get a glimpse of him as she stands in line. In fact, she's having to pay close attention as the line moves, repositioning herself constantly so that he can't see her. Always keeping one or two others between her and Castle. The job gets tougher as the line shortens.

She spends the time trying to figure out what she's going to say to him. Everything she comes up with that isn't complete bullshit is something she would never want to say. "Sorry I ditched you for the summer, but I was a pathetic wreck?" _Yeah, right_. "I heard what you said but I'm too gutless to say it, myself?" True, but not likely to help.

He's going to bail the minute he sees her, she _knows_ it. At least here, in front of his public, he won't be able to just cut and run.

If she could get him to hold still for, oh, half a day, maybe she could get it out and make him understand.

Maybe she can frame him for something? She could haul him in, have him as a captive audience in holding. Or maybe she could make _her_ confession to _him_ across the interrogation table.

Two people left in line ahead of her. She can hear his voice now, deep, quiet and warm as he greets each fan. It's also a bit gruff. He has probably been doing this almost every day for a few weeks, so she can understand his voice being a little raw at this point. The huskiness makes it even more appealing.

The sound tugs at her heart, makes her feel that warm buzz in her gut, just as it always has, even through the overlay of guilt. If only she can make him believe how much she has missed that voice, hearing it on the phone, in the car, next to her at the desk or the murder board.

Through some cosmic stroke of good fortune, he's zoning out a bit, staring at nothing, just as she steps up. As he snags another pen from the mug to his right, he says, "whom should I make it out to?"

That, at least, gives her something concrete to respond to, instead of blurting out one of her half-assed prepared lines.

"Kate." He doesn't recognize her voice immediately, and he is still wearing a polite smile as he looks up. "You can make it out to Kate." Then her heart sinks as she sees the gentle smile disappear. His expression goes blank; no happiness, no pleasure, not even anger. It's the expression he wears when he's playing poker and dead-set on winning.

Oh, God, this was a mistake, she shouldn't have come here. She should have done something else, anything, called or emailed first, something to lay the groundwork for her apology. Did she just take a bad situation and turn it into a disaster? Is there any hope at all of salvaging this?

* * *

><p>He hears her name, her voice, but can't actually believe it is her until he looks up. There it is, the face that haunts him, and despite everything, he feels that pull, the bittersweet feeling that he could just... drown in her, spend his every waking moment gazing on that face, and die happy.<p>

He's about to speak, then catches himself and glances past her, sees the dozens of people still waiting to meet him, and his guts clench, painfully, as he realizes why she has done what she has done. _Really, Kate? **Really?**_

As if everything else has not been bad enough, now she pulls _this_ stunt. No phone call, no visit to his loft. No, she has to do it in public, at a book signing, no less, so he won't make a scene. _Do you **really** think so little of me, Kate? Or are you just **such** a coward?_

He studies her silently, as he tries to think of something to write. Something that _doesn't_ reflect what he's feeling at the moment, something that he won't regret.

_To Kate: Welcome back to the land of the living. Rick Castle_

He hands the book back to her, never breaking eye contact. He watches as she takes in a breath, lips parting, preparing to say something more, and cuts her off with a look. He holds her gaze, shakes his head emphatically. _Not here, Kate. Not now. Time for **you** to wait._

Then he's looking past her to the next woman in line.

Kate can take a hint. She takes her book and heads for the door, more thoroughly chastised than if he'd actually chewed her out and had security give her the bum's rush.

It takes far more willpower than he expected not to watch her go.

He turns to the next person, a silver-haired, matronly woman with kind eyes. "Thank you for coming out. Whom should I make this out to?"

Thank God this is his last book signing for the week; he'll have almost a week's break before the next one. He'll be drinking green tea with honey and lemon for the next 3 days, just to repair the damage to his vocal cords.

* * *

><p>Had he really thought she'd leave? No, he's not <em>that<em> foolish. But he's still a little surprised that she waited him out, hanging around the front of the book store until the signing was over. He gives her one exasperated glance, then walks past without a word. He hears her boots scrape against the pavement as she pushes away from the wall, turning to follow him.

"Castle, wait."

He won't give her the satisfaction of seeing him turn around. "I did; for three months. You never called."

"Look, I know you're angry."

_Angry? ANGRY?_ He can't contain himself now, pivoting on his heel to face her. For just an instant, he's sure that this is it; he's going to lose it, just unload on her, and say things he won't be able to take back, she won't be able to forgive. He clenches his hands into fists and exerts every last bit of self-control to hold in that outburst. The struggle seems to last forever, but probably is no more than a second or two.

"Oh, you're damn right, I'm angry!" He's a little ashamed to take pleasure in the look on her face, but finds he's not above it at all. How could she... "I watched you _die_ in that ambulance, did you know that? Do you know what that's _like_? Watching the life drain out of someone you-" he catches himself, the habit of concealment _so_ strong, "someone you care about?"

"I told you I needed some time."

"You said a few days."

"I needed more."

"Well, you should have said that." He turns away again, done with the conversation, maybe done with _her_. Thinking of nothing but putting as much distance between them as possible.

"Castle, look, I _couldn't_ call you, OK?" There's a hint of panic in her voice. It's that, not her words, that convinces him to wait. "Not without dragging myself into... everything that I was just trying to get some space from."

He won't speak, but at least he stops, and turns back to look at her.

"I needed some time to just work through everything."

_Yes, work through everything... without me._ Nothing he can do will keep the bitterness out of his voice. "_Josh_ help you with that?"

She can't meet his eyes, glancing away as her mouth works, trying to get the words out. "We broke up." And with that, whatever she's using for courage deserts her. She turns and walks across the street, barely checking for traffic as she goes.

He watches her go, feeling... he doesn't know what he's feeling. _They broke up._ Josh is gone. What is he supposed to do with that? What is she trying to tell him, with that admission? Nothing can ever be simple between them, no communication is direct. It's all code and subtext and leading questions and evasive answers. He's so damned _weary_ of it. He wants to catch her, drag her down and force her to come clean, somehow.

_So, buddy, what's it going to be? Are you going to chase her again?_ Something in him, some deep _male_ part of him rebels at the thought. He's chased her enough; why must it always be _him_ putting himself out there? He's got his _pride_, dammit.

It's that thought that makes him freeze.

_Man, four months ago you sat on a cracked plastic chair in a hospital corridor, cursing yourself a hundred times over for all the times you let your pride get in the way with her. Were you telling yourself the truth, or just being some sort of fucking drama queen?_

He grits his teeth. OK, one last time. He takes off after her, hoping she's stopped somewhere in the park across the street.

* * *

><p>Kate doesn't make it even halfway through the park before her legs start to fail her. Her vision is blurring, and she's berating herself over and over: <em>you are not going to lose it here, in public, you are not going to break down and cry in front of all these people.<em> She'll sit down, calm herself for a moment, but there isn't a bench in sight.

She spots the swings to her left, detours toward them and drops into one with a grim sigh.

The book is heavy in her grip, far heavier than it has any right to be. She looks at what Castle has scrawled on the cover and almost loses it again. _If only he knew._

She opens it again, is quietly re-reading his dedication, the kind, respectful, loving words for her beloved friend and mentor. She's so engrossed in it that she almost doesn't notice that someone has taken up residence in the swing to her left. Almost.

She glances out of the corner of her eye. _Thank God_. It's Castle, of course it's Castle. The man who waits for her. Always.

Not for the first time, she wonders what she did in some previous life to have this, to have _him._ Because surely nothing she's done in this life makes the grade.

She starts with something light, not wanting to push into the heart of it right away. "I like the dedication..."

His answer is terse, almost abrupt. "It seemed right."

Before she can lose her nerve, she tries something a little... leading... an opening for him to voice some of his feelings. "Must have been hard, writing that ending."

"Yeah, yeah.. given the circumstances, yeah." He waits, but she seems to have run out of things to say. Will he pick up the ball? "So, why'd you guys break up?"

She considers her answer carefully. This is the moment of truth. Time to let him in, even if just a little. The idea of opening up completely still fills her with an almost unreasoning terror, but she's more terrified still of losing him.

She wants to tell him about all the times over the summer when she reached for the phone, even going so far as doing that "dial every number except the last" thing like some lovesick high school girl. But every time she tried, the black dread gripped her, the specter of every failed relationship, every time she blew some poor bastard out of the water, some guy who never did anything wrong except get involved with Katherine Beckett.

She's the world heavyweight champion of relationship killers. This summer, Josh; before him, Tom; before that, Will, and how many more before him? Over and over, like a _curse_, she can _always_ find some way to screw things up. And now Castle, a relationship stillborn, has she killed it before it even had a chance?

"I really, really liked him." She pauses, looks directly at him. His face is still turned away, but she knows he'll turn to look at her eventually, and when he does, she wants him to see her looking at him. Giving him her full attention. The words are for him, and nobody else. "But that wasn't enough."

_Not any more. Not now, now that there's you. Never again._

"After my mother was killed, something inside of me changed. It's like I... built up this wall, inside. I don't know, I guess I just didn't want to hurt like that again."

_Please, God, Castle, if you ever read between the lines, do it now. Because this is all I've got the courage to say right now._

"I know I'm not going to be able to be the kind of person that I want to be, I know I'm not gonna..." and thank God, he's looking at her, now when it counts, and her eyes never leave his as she continues, "I'm not going to be able... to have the _kind of relationship_ I want, until that wall comes down." _You, Castle. It's you. Please, please, please understand. Give me a chance._

"And it's not gonna happen until I put this thing to rest."

She watches him, studies him like a suspect across the interrogation table, using all her skill and sense of expression and body language, and her heart sings when she sees his reaction. _Message received, loud and clear._

"Well then, I suppose we're just gonna have to find these guys and take 'em down." He pauses before continuing. "Doesn't mean I'm not still mad."

"The boys told me about what you did, following the money trail. Trying to track down who the cops paid off."

So, Ryan and Esposito saw her earlier. Unfortunately, he hasn't had a chance to update them on what he's found. He'd passed the job off to Pierce the day before he left for the book tour.

Pierce grabbed the ball and ran with it, who knows what resources he used, but he tracked down old regulatory filings for the bank and through that, the names of the officers at the time the bank was closed. After that, it was child's play to find their current whereabouts. Castle had contacted one of them just the previous day, gotten the scoop. Then, the bad news had surfaced only that morning...

"I just wish it led somewhere. I mean, I located the files. When the bank closed, they took all the dead account paperwork and stored it in a warehouse, in Union City. But.. a couple years after the move, a fire broke out, the files were destroyed. It's just another dead end."

Something about this ticks at Kate's subconscious, that suspicious thing lurking in the hind-brain that picks up on the patterns... and the discrepancies. "How did it happen?"

"It was an accident, it was old wiring."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, there was an investigation."

"Well, did you see the report from the fire investigator?"

"No, but..." He pauses, realizing what she's getting at, and looks at her, more than a little incredulous. "Really, a warehouse fire? Seems an awful lot of trouble just for a couple of files."

"That's no more trouble than they've already gone through; I mean, we have to read that report." She pauses, then finally decides to turn on the charm. "It's just, there's this one problem..." She screws up her face in mock concern, looking up at the sky.

"What?"

"Well... how ya gonna help, if Gates kicked you out?" She gives him a sidelong glance, long on playful sexiness.

"I only _let_ her kick me out because there was no reason to _stay_."

"Oh." She rolls her eyes, just a touch, and lays on the sarcasm, smiling, loving it, loving every second. God, she's missed this, missed _him_.

"She'll take me back."

* * *

><p>Beckett, gun once again in hand, catches up to him outside Gates' office. "Showing her up with the mayor? You might as well have beaten a beehive with a bat!"<p>

Castle would never let on how much it still stings, the memory of that hellish morning when Gates had called him in to her office to tell him he had no place in her precinct, how she didn't want him wasting her detectives' time. And just how welcome this chance at revenge (however petty) had been. "It worked, didn't it? Besides, it sure was great, seeing her face _twitch_ like that."

Ryan is at the murder board posting a few photographs, as they approach. Old home week...

Castle starts scanning the board, trying to take it in as quickly as possible, speed-reading through the notations. Beside him, Beckett is doing the same. The warm familiarity of it loosens the knots inside him. Maybe things will be OK, they can get through this and keep moving forward.

Society murder, Sonya Gilbert, a paparazzi staple. Sounds open and shut; a neighbor saw her boyfriend leaving the morning of the murder. He's a rock drummer, with a history of drug use. Castle is just starting to get warmed up when Esposito calls them aside.

He has a copy of the fire investigator's report, and the fire was just a few weeks after Beckett's mother was murdered. Seems Beckett's instincts haven't been affected at all. _Damn_, how did she do that?

She just keeps right on amazing him, time after time.

* * *

><p>Later that night, Castle is sitting at his desk, making notes and trying to let his mind free-associate, and not to become too concerned over Kate. It's a lost cause, of course; he can't recall ever seeing her so... broken, before. It feels like she's clinging at straws. Everything about Rod Halstead screams "straight-arrow", no indication whatsoever that he had been compromised, but Kate insisted - almost hysterically - that he <em>must<em> have been. That there was _no way_ the fire was an accident.

She's clinging to that one lead like it's the difference between life and death, and it frankly scared the hell out of him. He keeps seeing the look on her face, hearing the tremor in her voice as she almost broke down, ticking off every death and loss. How there are no more options, nowhere to move the investigation. _"Everybody is GONE, Castle."_

His heart aches at the memory, how badly he wanted to comfort her in that moment, to tell her "_not everyone_," then just take her in his arms and tell her that everything would be OK, but there was no way, just no way. Things are still too raw, too... prickly between them, the hurts are too fresh, their old comfort zone not yet regained. Even at their best, it would have been hard - and risky - to offer that; but as they are right now? It would be a disaster in the making.

He's so engrossed in his thoughts that when Alexis comes in, he doesn't even notice. He knows something is wrong, instantly; Alexis almost _always_ knocks before she enters his study. Tonight she manages to make her way to the chair, even seat herself, before speaking. How long has she been there, studying him?

"Missed you for dinner tonight."

"Yeah, I know, I'm sorry. I was working."

"You were with Beckett." It's not a question. He can hear the carefully controlled anger, her voice too even, almost stilted.

He's _not_ going to lie to her. The rift is bad enough already. "Yeah."

"Thought you said you weren't going back."

About this, at least, he can be honest. "I'm not." When he sees her sceptical expression, he continues, "Look, I'm not, it's just this one case."

"Yeah, well, there's leftovers in the 'fridge." She gets up, quickly, and makes for the door. He's just about to call her back when the phone rings. Grimacing, and feeling a little cowardly about answering the phone instead of pursuing his daughter, he scoops up the receiver. He notes, with a little confusion, that the Caller ID is blocked; still, he answers, welcoming the distraction.

"Hello."

"Mr. Castle?"

"Yeah."

"I'm a friend of Roy Montgomery's." The voice is not familiar to him, and he wonders how the man got his number. "I'm calling about Detective Beckett. We need to talk."

What the hell is this? "You have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but..."

"If you need a name, you can call me Mr. Smith."

_Yeah, right._ "Not _Agent_ Smith?"

A dry chuckle drifts back across the line. "I suppose I should have expected that from you, Mr. Castle. No, Mr. Smith will do."

"All right, Mr. Smith. You have my attention."

"It's better for both of us that you know as little about me as possible. I will tell you this: Roy Montgomery was an old and very close friend. I owed him a great debt; the biggest debt one _can_ owe, in fact. The time has come to pay it."

Castle debates, very briefly, whether to press for more information. He decides to let Mr. Smith tell him as much as he will, freely, and only then try for more. Pry too much and the man might hang up. And Castle needs information like he needs _air_.

"I'm willing to leave it at that. Why are you calling _me?_"

"Because I can only pay part of the debt, myself. You appear to be the only person who is positioned to do the rest."

"Yeah, well, I owe the Captain too."

"Before Roy died, he mailed me a package. It contained a great deal of information. Old police reports, results of investigations, bank statements, and more. The information would be very damaging to some very important, and very _powerful_ people."

"Why did he send it to you? That sounds like the sort of information he should have given to his detectives."

"The information is very embarrassing, even damaging; but in my opinion it would not be _conclusive._ Not enough for a conviction in a court of law. The notes that Roy included suggest that he was of the same opinion."

"So what was his purpose, in sending it to you?"

"He knew that I am in a position to use that information as leverage."

"Leverage for what?"

"Leverage to keep his family safe. His wife and children... and Detective Beckett." His phrasing doesn't escape Rick's notice.

"It doesn't seem to have worked. After all, we _both_ know what happened last May."

"I didn't receive the information until after the funeral. Bad timing. I was... not in the city."

"I see. So, again, why call me?"

There is a pause on the line. He suspects that Mr. Smith is weighing just how much to tell him. "The file also contained a photograph of you, and some after-action reports that... spoke to your character. It also contained detailed notes about you from Roy, himself. It appears that he held you in very high regard, Mr. Castle."

He pauses, clearly waiting for Rick to fill the silence, but Castle finds himself suddenly too choked up to speak. It's amazing how the grief can sneak up on him at the weirdest times, blind-siding him, even now.

After a moment, Smith continues. "Which brings us to your part in all this. I have contacted the people in question through secure channels. I have made it clear that if they move on Roy's wife or children, _or_ Detective Beckett, that I will make the information public in the most damaging way I can possibly manage."

"I see. And what was their reaction?"

"They have agreed to... refrain from any action. I've been monitoring Detective Beckett's progress, and I'm aware that she has now returned to active duty. Which brings us to you. The people in question had one condition: Beckett must cease all investigations into the matter."

"And if she doesn't?"

"Do I _really_ have to answer that question, Mr. Castle?"

"So, you want me to... steer her off the case, is that it?"

"Exactly."

Oh, God. How the _hell_ is he going to do this? "That won't be easy. You probably know enough about her to know that. She has already tried to get back into the case, today."

"Then you've got your work cut out for you, it seems."

Castle continues, speaking as much to himself as to Mr. Smith, "The only good news is that it doesn't seem that our one lead is going to pan out. But she's a bulldog, Mr. Smith."

"I didn't say your job would be easy; just that it was your job. Roy seemed to believe that you were the only person with enough influence over the Detective to do this."

"The Captain may have been overly optimistic."

"For her sake, I hope you are wrong. For _both_ your sakes. Goodbye, Mr. Castle."

"Wait! How do I get in touch with you?"

"You don't. If there is any reason, I will contact you."

"Mr. Smith!"

"Yes?"

"Was... was he a cop, or was he at the DA's office?"

There is a pause, and for one brief, pulse-pounding moment Castle thinks he's going to get an answer.

"She needs you _alive_, Mr. Castle."

The line goes dead.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** Not my world, just my words.

* * *

><p>"Le coeur a ses raisons, que la raison ne connait point."<br>"The heart has its reasons, of which reason knows naught."  
>- Blaise Pascal, "Pensees"<p>

* * *

><p>There's a clean area on the carpet, where someone's body prevented the blood coming through the mattress from reaching it.<p>

Castle reaches back toward Esposito, gesturing for him to hand over the black light. "Your light?"

The fingerprints fluoresce under the ultraviolet. Somebody had grabbed the bed frame to pull himself (or herself) out from under the bed. "Ah!"

"Fingerprints." Ryan sounds inordinately pleased.

"Someone was here."

"Looks like they found a killer hiding place."

All three men turn to look at Beckett when she drops that gem. The tight, wry little smile on her face is like a tonic for Castle.

_Oh, THERE you are. I missed you..._

* * *

><p>Esposito catches up with Ryan in the break room. He finds Ryan stirring his coffee and staring through the blinds, watching Beckett and Castle.<p>

"Yo, Ryan. Any coffee left?"

"Hmm."

"Hey, Earth to Ryan..."

"Yeah, yeah, 'bout half a pot worth."

"Eh, think I'll do the espresso thing instead. Can you move over a little, bro?"

"Sure, sure." He's still watching Castle, even as Castle watches Beckett leaving. "Man, can you _believe_ that?"

"Believe what?" Javier follows Ryan's line of sight, sees Castle. "Oh. Not really. The man's a hell of a lot more forgiving than me." He busies himself spooning coffee into the portafilter, tamping it down.

"Remember what he _looked_ like, that last couple of weeks in July?"

Esposito grimaces at the memory, even as he locks the portafilter into the machine. "Like an extra from _The Walking Dead_. Jesus, I kept waiting for him to just pitch over." He puts his cup under the spout, thumbs the button on the machine.

"I remember Velasquez told me she caught him in here after midnight _twice_ back in June." He pauses, then grins. "Too bad you weren't here last Monday around 8:00. You just missed the show."

"What show?"

"Velasquez caught some green rook using Castle's chair as a footstool, he was up trying to swat a spider on the wall for Karpowski."

"Oh, boy..."

"Oh yeah, she read him the riot act. 'That's _Castle's_ chair, dammit! You need a stepladder, you go find one! Don't you _ever_ touch that chair!' Oh, it was just _beautiful_."

"Man, sorry I missed that. Well, he's back now."

"Maybe it was for the best. Looks like he got caught up on his rest, once Gates kicked him out. Still hasn't dropped all that weight he put on, though."

"Some of it, at least."

"What do you think Beckett said to him?"

"No idea." Javier thinks about it, trying to put himself in Castle's shoes, to imagine what it was like. He finally gives up. "Man, I really don't think I could have let that go. That would take some damned tall apologizing."

Ryan thinks about the expression on Castle's face, just after Beckett walked out. Something about it... it looked like... what? Guilt? Chagrin? He takes a sip of his coffee before replying. "Maybe he hasn't let it go. Could still be simmering."

"I don't know, but I don't think so. Castle doesn't seem like the type to hold a grudge. More the 'forgive and forget' type."

"Maybe. We should probably keep an eye on 'em. Maybe we can get him out to the Old Haunt some night this week."

"Get a few drinks into him, try to get him to talk about it?"

"Yeah."

"Sounds like a plan."

* * *

><p>"Why don't we start with the shooting? Is any of it coming back to you?"<p>

"I lied, before."

"What _do_ you remember?"

"I remember everything."

Dr. Burke doesn't respond immediately, just studying her in the calm way she had become familiar with the previous summer.

"Kate, I'm sure you had your reasons for concealing that. Do you want to discuss them? It's not necessary at this time."

"I'd prefer not to go into it just now."

"Clearly you're not satisfied, leaving it at that. Otherwise you wouldn't be here. Maybe we can discuss your reasons for coming back to see me?"

"I... I owe it to someone."

"Hmm." He pauses again, lips thinning slightly as he watches her. "Tell me about Richard Castle."

_**That** came out of left field_. "What do you want to know?"

"When I first started seeing you last summer, I made a point of reading most of the reports involving the two of you. They made for very interesting reading."

"Well, he started tailing me about three years ago. He was interested in basing a new series of books on me and my team."

"Yes, the Nikki Heat novels. I've actually read the first one. Still, this seems to be an unusual situation. Why did you agree to it? Or your captain?"

"Castle is a close friend of Mayor Weldon; he was able to use that influence to get access. As for unusual, I'm sure it's not the first time a writer has shadowed a police officer for research."

"Yes, of course. Right up to the point where he risked his life for the first time. And then again. And a third time. I certainly never saw anything like _that_ during my years as a cop. Never even _heard_ of it."

Kate pauses, startled. "_You_ were on the job?"

"Of _course_ I was on the job. Do you think the NYPD would have a psychiatrist evaluating their officers who had no police experience? Fourteen years on the Chicago force. I was a sergeant when I left to return to school."

"I'm sorry... I never would have called that one."

"It _was_ more than 20 years ago. Some of the blue may have worn off."

"How did you... I mean..."

"I saw the toll the job takes on the men and women who do it. The psychological well-being of my brothers and sisters just didn't seem to be a high priority to the brass. I thought I might be able to do something to help, but when I came back with my license, they weren't interested in the programs I wanted to institute. I beat my head against that wall for about a year, then went looking elsewhere. The NYPD _was_ interested, so here I am."

She pauses again, pondering this. She finds that she's glad to know; in fact, she wishes she'd known the previous summer. It might have made a difference in how much she opened up to him.

"You might want to consider offering that information to your patients up front. I might have loosened up a little more, at least."

"I'll consider it. Returning to our previous discussion. Why do you think Richard Castle has continued to work with you, knowing full well that by doing so he has placed himself in mortal danger? He _does_ have a teen-aged daughter to consider, doesn't he?"

"You ask that question like you think you already know the answer."

He gives her a rare, wry smile. "I've interrogated my share of witnesses. And I'm more interested in your _real_ answer than in my _hypothetical_ answer."

Kate bites her lip, looks out the window. The silence draws out, 30 seconds, then a minute. Burke waits quietly for her to respond.

"He's very... invested in our partnership at this point."

"Kate, what do you hope to accomplish with me? By continuing these sessions?"

"I... what do you mean?"

"Kate, you're evading. That answer is unworthy of you." He pauses, studying her response. "The success of therapy depends upon developing a relationship of trust between the patient and the therapist. That is why confidentiality is so crucial, and breaches of confidentiality are always grounds for loss of licensure. The patient _must_ be able to trust the therapist not to reveal the things they divulge. Otherwise progress will be slow or nonexistent. I think you're smart enough to see where I'm going with this."

"Yes, I understand. It's just... I'm... I'm a very private person."

"And I can respect that, but if we're going to make progress toward... whatever you want to accomplish, you're going to have to overcome that."

"Yes. It's just very hard."

"So let's try to do baby steps, here. You've already told me that you came here because you feel you owe it to someone. Would that person be Mr. Castle?"

Kate grits her teeth, fighting the lifelong impulse of secrecy. She can have something real, some happiness, or she can have her privacy. She can't have both.

"Yes. Yes, it is. Him... and myself."

"That's an interesting admission. What is it you think you owe yourself?"

"I don't know how to express it."

"Take your time and think it through. The most important thing for us to accomplish at this point, is to get clarity on what we are trying to do. Knowing your motivations and goals, as clearly as possible."

"I'm trying. I just feel so damned... selfish! Like I'm doing something _wrong_, all the time. Like at heart, I'm a bad person. Dammit, I'm not a bad person!"

"I don't believe you are, Kate."

"I just feel like I should be doing more, I should _be_ more. All I am now is this... machine, just existing and doing my job. I eat and I sleep and I work. And I don't understand why he..."

"He what?"

"Why he likes that. Why he's... attracted to it. He could have..." She stops, then, unable to continue the sentence with _any woman he wants_ because Burke would be able to read _that_ subtext at 20 paces. "I just don't deserve it."

"Deserve what, Kate?"

"Him. I don't deserve him."

He smiles at her again. "Kate, I think you've just admitted more than you intended..."

* * *

><p>It has been a long night, and Castle is feeling more than a little fried. After a lot of less-than-stellar leads, the break had finally come.<p>

Now they have their "Lone Vengeance" in custody, but that seems to be only the beginning of their trouble. The vigilante was one of their own. Officer Hastings, no less. Castle could only remember meeting her a few times before this. His impression had been that she was calm, competent and disciplined, but he remembers little else.

Certainly nothing had prepared him for how she would behave in the interrogation room. It's startling, how she is giving as good as she gets from Beckett, right there on Beckett's home turf. Esposito had once told him, half-jokingly, that he'd rather do a tour in Fallujah than go up against Beckett in the box. And there is Ann, totally unafraid, just... duking it out with her. _Damn._

Castle leaves Beckett to her interrogation, making his way from the observation room to the break room where he suspects that Paul Whittaker will still be waiting. He's right. The reporter is standing in the middle of the room, tight-lipped and looking more than a little lost.

Best to break it to him quickly. "We arrested Ann. I just thought you should know."

Castle winces inwardly as he watches the man's expression fall. Another writer, another muse; Rick counts himself lucky that his own muse is not so terribly flawed. Flawed, yes, but not _that_ flawed.

"You're probably wondering why I confessed, then..."

_No, Paul, I don't wonder at all._ "You're in love with her."

Paul says nothing, but he doesn't need to, because his face says it all. There's really nothing else Castle can say.

Could this guy _really_ be so blind? Or was Ann being straight with them?

_Beckett! Need to talk to Beckett!_

He gets back to the observation room in time to catch Ann telling Beckett about the partial print that was on the knuckle plate.

As he watches the remaining back-and-forth, reads Beckett's expressions and body language, he's fairly sure she's coming to the same conclusion he has, his hunch only reinforced by Ann's revelations about the habits of their victim.

* * *

><p>Her expression is tight-lipped, noncommittal, as he meets her outside the interrogation room. He decides to wait, see what she will say. She's quiet almost halfway back to her desk, before saying, almost grudgingly, "Well, she didn't kill Tyler Faris."<p>

_Good time to play dumb, Castle_. "How do you know?"

"I... I just... I know."

"Well, if she didn't do it, Chad Hockney didn't do it, then we're looking at a _third_ Lone Vengeance." He pauses, glances at her. "A clever impostor."

"OK, so, uh, let's suppose that our killer is an impostor." She steps up to join him at the board. "That would mean that... he targeted Tyler Faris and wore a costume either to make sure that nobody could identify him..."

"Or to make sure he _would_ be identified and frame Lone Vengeance for the murder..."

And then it's happening again, they're into the groove; like the counterfeiting case, the Gentleman Squatter, the Zalman Drake murder, and so many, many other times. That indescribable sense of their minds linking up, putting the pieces together...

"Tyler Faris was the _perfect_ victim."

"Yeah, he shows up in a dark alley like clockwork, even brings his own _witness_."

_This_ is it, the thing that really keeps him coming back, the delicious feeling of connection, of shared insights. He's hooked, and he knows it, he's a junkie and _this_ is his drug. A drug that _nobody sells_.

"OK, so then maybe our killer was a _criminal_ who wanted Lone Vengeance off the streets."

"A criminal who wanted vengeance _against_ Lone Vengeance _and_ Tyler Faris..."

He can _never_ explain this to anyone, not to Alexis, not his mother. The pure, _crystalline_ exhilaration of two minds racing, together, toward that conclusion. It's something just for them, him and Kate, their own private... ecstasy, and he _knows_ she feels it too... he remembers that shining delight in her eyes so many times before as they put it together... _together_.

"Someone who _knew_ Tyler and his habits..."

"Someone who had experience wielding a blade..."

"Someone who pointed us to Lone Vengeance in the first place."

_I can never give this up. Never._

Solving a case with Kate Beckett is better than _sex_ with any woman he's ever known.

* * *

><p><em>Who the hell are you and what have you done with Captain Gates?<em>

Castle and Beckett watch as Gates returns to her office, equally confused.

Castle's willing to postulate. "Either she just grew a heart..."

"Or she's worried about how it would look if the press found out that Lone Vengeance was one of our own."

"A writer and his muse, fighting crime." Castle leans over to watch Ann and Paul walking toward the elevator; he can't stop the little smile tugging at his lips and doesn't notice Kate next to him having the same trouble. "Just like us."

"Hmm."

Ann doesn't even wait for the elevator doors to close, taking Paul's face in her hands and kissing him in full view. Castle can't help but glance at Kate, only to catch her trying, vainly, to compose her face. He can see her biting her lips and fighting to keep her features set, and his heart soars at the sight. _Oh, the things I could say right now..._

_Will she be embarrassed? Angry? Thankful?_ He can't bring himself to risk it just yet, but the day _will_ come.

He settles for something comforting and familiar. "So... tomorrow?"

She can't even open her mouth to answer, responding only with a happy little hum. "Mm-hmm."

"'K!" And with that, he pivots quickly on his heel, heading for the elevator himself.

If only he'd looked back.

She watches him go, a bright, loving smile on her face, not even trying to hide it now, almost _hoping_ he'll look back and catch her. She _is_ a romantic, she knows it, and she guards that knowledge in her secret heart like a pearl beyond price. Even so, it feels so _good_ to let it out like this.

_Oh, Castle. You don't know it yet, but one of these days, I'm gonna knock your socks off._


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** Not my world, just my words.

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><p>This is another tough one, he can tell already. It's always harder for her, dealing with family members of the victim, when she knows that victim was loved.<p>

Unlike the late Tyler Faris, who left _nobody_ bereft, not even his mother. Boy, was _she_ a piece of work.

But Lester Hamilton is different; his wife Cynthia loved him, by all accounts. So it's harder for Kate. He doesn't know how to help, other than being there, no way to shoulder part of the burden of breaking the news.

Esposito has just shown them into an interview room, the wife and Lester's friend, Castle's forgotten the name but he's a shorter man, balding and of slight build, every inch the research scientist type.

So now Kate has to go in and do her thing, that thing she does so well. For the hundredth time, he thinks _how does she do that?_ and like a voice from the grave, he hears Montgomery in his head saying _better than anyone I know_. He sits with her, watches as she... prepares herself. He's come to recognize the things she does, how she _girds_ herself for the task.

It's a little heartbreaking to watch, it often is, but for some reason today it's worse than usual. Not necessarily anything she's doing or saying, but the pressing feeling of a burgeoning insight mixed with a creeping fear that it's not a happy one.

That's when it happens. Her fingertips drop briefly to her shirt, and he knows that she's touching her mother's ring which hangs there. She pinches it through the fabric of the blouse and looks up at him, and for just a moment he sees the flash of sadness, of lingering, inconsolable grief. Then her eyes clear and she gives him the briefest of smiles, tinctured with the sadness of remembrance.

And suddenly he _knows_. _This_ is how she does it. Every time, she goes back in her mind and recalls her own experience, reminding herself of what _she_ felt so that she can know what _they_ are feeling. Every time. But that means...

She can _never_ really heal. Because every time she does this, she opens her own wounds again. Just a little. But enough.

It hits him like a hard slap in the face out of nowhere, and he knows he'll never control his expression well enough to hide it from her, the shock of that epiphany. He gets up, quickly, before she can say anything. "I'll... just..." he gestures toward the restroom and flees, moving as quickly as he can without making her more suspicious than she probably already is.

Biting his lip so hard he can taste blood.

Thank God nobody is in the restroom when he slams through the door, stumbling almost blindly to the sinks as he wonders if he's actually going to vomit.

No, no, that gut-wrenching begins to pass, and he twists viciously at the cold-water tap, scoops up quick handfuls to throw into his face, over and over.

Then he just stands over the sink, hands braced on the counter, forcing himself to breathe in and out. _You idiot. How did it take you so long to figure that out?_

"A man that studieth revenge keeps his wounds green..." He understands very well what Bacon meant, because he's been studying revenge for many months now.

But now he realizes that revenge isn't the only motivation; it can be done for generous and noble reasons, as well.

Like Beckett.

_Do any of them understand? What she **does** to herself, to help them? People she's never met, will never see again?_

He'd bet not one in a hundred has the slightest idea, has any clue the gratitude that they owe her. But she does it anyway, day after day, week after week, year after year.

Jesus. Who _does_ that? What kind of person...

He'll never measure up. Never.

_Doesn't matter. By God, I'll make her happy anyway. If she'll let me._

He grabs a paper towel, swipes it quickly across his face, being sure to leave a little dampness as camouflage for any tears that may have snuck through.

He pastes a smile on his face, as genuine as a three-dollar bill; he straightens his back, squares his shoulders. _It's showtime._

* * *

><p>She watches Serena go, and there's no kidding herself about the sick feeling in her gut.<p>

What's more, she catches _Castle_ watching Serena go, the tilt of his head and the tension in his stance. He's intrigued. Dammit, he's intrigued. _Shit shit shit!_

"You know, we really could have _used_ her. She has valuable assets."

She's too afraid of showing too much to give him anything more than a half-hearted glare.

"Not _those_ kind."

Still barely trusting her voice, and affecting an air of nonchalance that's light years from what she's actually feeling, she replies, "Castle, she'd just get in the way."

Hell, he's not going to buy that for a second, she's sure he'll see it all over her face, hear it in her voice. But he surprises her, not going for the tease, for the needle.

"Really? And what if she's onto something?"

That gives her the opening she needs to regroup, to channel it into more convincing exasperation. She pulls out her phone, dials.

"Ryan, check and see if all the catering vans are accounted for, and interview all the catering staff. See if anyone saw anything unusual in the loading bay." She hangs up, pastes a stock expression of vaguely amused annoyance on her face, and stalks past Castle out of the room.

Castle, more or less oblivious, pipes up with, "Now, was that so hard?"

She won't give him the satisfaction of seeing her look back.

* * *

><p><em>I've had this dream before, I think.<em>

Ryan's standing at the table, saying all the things you should say while trying to bring someone up to speed on the facts of a case, but it really, _really_ doesn't feel right.

It's like he's in a play, and he thinks he knows his lines, he's saying them, but he's not even sure what kind of play it is. He _thinks_ he's in a Mamet play but maybe it's really Ibsen, or something even weirder, like Steve Martin.

Serena _seems_ to be listening to him and she's looking at the information on the desk. Mostly. Sometimes she's looking at Castle. Castle's looking mostly at Serena. And yeah, Beckett's looking at Castle looking at Serena - and oh, does she look pissed. She's not even _trying_ to hide it.

_Oh, hell. Do I really have to be here for **this** barnyard dance? Why didn't I call in sick today?_

He prays that Castle won't do anything stupid.

As if on cue, Esposito walks in.

"Yo! Guys! Found something; I was going over the security..." He trails off, noticing Serena, looks at her, then at the rest of them, the question in his eyes.

"Oh. Detective Esposito, this is Serena Kaye. She's with us."

_Lord, just once, can't you just answer a prayer straight up?_

But maybe He has, sort of, because Javier has some hard physical evidence, some sort of electronic device the perp used to bypass the security system. This Kaye woman even recognizes it, to the point of associating a specific suspect to the thing. _Falco? What child of the 80s came up with that code name?_

Serena seems happy about it, though, starts moving with purpose. "Now that we have some direction, I can get us some leads."

_Finally, leads. Something to keep everyone busy enough not to be stepping all over themselves._

Serena is even making to head out the door to follow up on possible fences - without them, no less! _Maybe this day can be saved, after all._

Beckett tries to object, and he can see _that_ entire train wreck unfolding, Serena and Castle and Beckett all together in the Crown Vic and trying to talk to contacts, and he really, _really_ should have called in sick.

Serena, however, spares him that agony and shuts Beckett down.

"The people there won't talk to cops. But they'll talk to me."

Castle stands up, moves to follow Serena. Ryan gapes at him in total disbelief. _Twice, Castle? **Twice?** Why don't you go out and buy the Brooklyn Bridge now, make it a trifecta?_ He grimaces and waits for Beckett to detonate, destroying them all in place.

Crazily, she sounds honestly surprised as she asks him, "Where are _you_ going?"

"Ahhh... I'm not a cop, either. So..."

_Jesus wept._ He looks at his partner, shakes his head.

But Beckett just shakes _her_ head and lets him go, with nothing more than a resigned "Fine."

They're not out the door 5 seconds before Javier jerks a thumb over his shoulder and says, "she's with us?"

_Any minute now, I'm gonna wake up in my bed._

* * *

><p>The call from Detective Beckett late yesterday afternoon came as a surprise. She has been very punctual and diligent about her weekly sessions, and never shirks the "homework" he gives her. He asks to discuss something at the next session, and she always seems prepared to do so when she next arrives. In some ways, she's the perfect patient. It's clear she's determined to make progress and willing to do the work required.<p>

But she's still one of the most guarded patients he's ever dealt with. She withholds, she evades, and she's so damned smart that it's almost impossible to catch her out. He secretly enjoys the challenge she represents, and has far less trouble understanding Castle's attraction than she does.

But she's normally so regimented that an out-of-the-blue call for an extra session raises a big red flag for him.

"So, tell me about this woman, this insurance investigator."

"She's an uncooperative, cocky, stubborn know it all!"

"But she is good at her job?"

"Yeah, well, _Castle_ seems to think so."

"And that bothers you."

"Yes, of course it bothers me."

"Why?"

"Because, he's supposed to be..."

And the words seem to fail her, fail her as they always do when it comes time to talk about a real emotional attachment.

He gives her a moment, then decides that she's not going to continue the thought without prodding. "Be what?"

"My partner? I mean, he's supposed to be... on my team. He's not supposed to be all _smitten_."

"Kate, we've discussed the situation with Richard Castle before, but I've never really forced the issue. There seemed to be a lot of other things to deal with before tackling that one. But the day is coming when we will have to do it."

"Well, yes, it is kind of complicated."

"Why is it complicated?"

"You know why it's complicated."

"Only what you've told me." He pauses, then asks the crucial question, "Kate, what are you really scared of? That he _won't_ wait for you, or that he _will?_"

"I don't know! There's... so many problems with it, and we've gotten so... wound up together in my mind that I'm not sure which problems are mine and which are his and which we both own."

"Are there any issues that you can clearly point to, and tell me: _those_ are problems that I have with him, with what he is or what he has done?"

"He's been married and divorced twice. He jokes about it, but it's pretty clear he has commitment issues."

"Have you ever _asked_ him about the divorces? What happened? Who initiated them?"

"No."

"Do you really think it's fair to judge him about that if you have no reliable information?" He pauses, ponders it for a moment. "Let me put it to you this way: would you even bring someone in for _questioning_ on the basis of the information you have now, or would you continue investigating?"

She looks at him, stunned. Her mouth opens and closes a bit like a landed fish as she considers the question. "I... well... OK, no. No, I wouldn't." She offers him a rueful smile. "If I did, my Captain would kick my ass."

He grins at that, an honest, open grin. Probably not too professional, but it's just so delightful to hear such honest, totally _Kate_ words out of her mouth.

"I know Mr. Castle has quite the reputation. He shows up a lot on page 6, or at least he _did_ before the past few years." He leaves it to her to infer what she will from that.

"My real question for you is: have you actually _seen_ such behavior? For people like this, people who gain a certain level of celebrity as a result of their profession, the public image is sometimes very carefully crafted and not at all real. Notoriety sells books, sells movie tickets. Is it possible that you've confused the persona with the person?"

Kate considers the question carefully, and Dr. Burke waits patiently as she does.

"Honestly, no. If I think about it, I can't really come up with anything at all. He had a short fling with an actress a few years ago, but she was trying to get a part in the first Nikki Heat movie. He wised up fairly quick. Other than that, the only relationship I've seen him in was with his 2nd ex-wife, they tried to reconcile, and that only lasted about 8 months."

"Kate, as I told you once before, I read a lot of the reports involving the two of you when you first started seeing me. Since you returned, I've read all of them. Some of them more than once."

"Yes, so?"

"By my count, he has knowingly and willingly risked his life for you on at least _five_ separate occasions." He ticks them off on his fingers. "The bombing of your apartment; he broke down the door of a burning apartment to pull you out. The Scott Dunn arrest, when Dunn kidnapped that FBI agent, ummm..."

"Agent Shaw."

"Shaw, yes. The two of you went in after Dunn alone, no other backup, right? You gave Castle your backup weapon, yes?"

"He's an excellent shot."

"That wasn't the point of the question. You _trusted_ him to back you up, and he did, yes?"

"Yes, yes he did." Her voice is getting quieter, her demeanor more reticent.

"He went in with you to rescue Detectives Ryan and Esposito when they were taken hostage by Hal Lockwood and his crew. In the course of that arrest, he tackled an armed, trained professional killer and beat the man unconscious with his bare hands. Castle wasn't even armed at the time, was he?"

"No, he wasn't." She's barely whispering at this point.

"There was the dirty bomb threat last year. You and Castle were personally responsible for defusing the bomb. And, by the way, I'd like to offer you my thanks. It appears the bomb was about four blocks from my offices at the time. So I guess I owe you both a debt."

"I'll pass that along, someday."

"And finally, I have multiple eyewitness accounts that he tried to take that sniper's bullet for you last spring."

Silence descends. Burke has said all he intends to, and just waits patiently to see what she will say.

"Well, if you wanted to make me feel small, I can say: mission accomplished."

"Kate, that wasn't my objective at all."

"So why the trip down memory lane?"

"I think it should be obvious, given the context of our discussion." He looks at her like he thinks she's being deliberately obtuse. "These are _not_ the actions of a man who harbors a passing fancy, Kate. This is the behavior of a man who is deeply committed to another person. To you."

* * *

><p>"Nothing so far," Esposito calls across the room to her, "you find anything yet?"<p>

_Yeah, yeah, I found something._ Lingerie. _High-dollar_ lingerie. Of course. Shit. She probably spent more money on one of those bra and panty sets than Kate spent on her entire underwear drawer. "No."

_Tomorrow, dammit. Victoria's Secret, here I come._

"Hmm. You really want to nail this chick, don't you?"

She's _far_ more of Rick's world than Kate is or will ever be. She has money, connections, is known and welcomed at the same sort of high-society parties that he is. _Probably even drinks tea with her pinkie sticking out._

"Yeah, well, it's what we do, isn't it? Catch bad guys?"

She tries not to think about what they're doing (together) downstairs in that restaurant. What are they talking about? What kind of banter? How innocent? How racy?

What is he saying to Serena that he won't say to her?

And whose damned fault is _that_, anyway?

_Shit shit shit._

"Yeah, but, seems like it might be about more than that."

She gives him the death glare, full force. She's fooling nobody, and she knows it, and what's more she can't even bring herself to hide it.

"Just keep looking, OK?"

_Let 'em think what they want. They will anyway._

* * *

><p>He waits for a lull in the discussion, then goes and makes up some coffee for himself and Beckett. Dropping the coffee on her desk, he makes a show of hauling out his phone, tapping it a few times. He catches her eye, mouths <em>I'll be right back<em> and walks off, tapping a random number into the phone and putting it to his ear as he goes.

As soon as he's out of sight, he half-bolts for the stairs down to holding.

He waves at Blakely as he goes by.

"Hey, Castle."

"Hey, how was Tricia's recital?"

"She survived; good enough for us."

Castle grins and shakes his head, then makes his way to the end of the block.

"Mr. Holt?"

The man looks up, his eyes sharp, intelligent, and bright with interest.

"Mr. Castle."

"Do you know who I am?"

"You're the crime novelist, yes?"

"Writer of Wrongs, that's me."

"And what can I do for you today?"

"Nothing... today. Still, given my profession, I like to cultivate _all sorts_ of contacts."

Understanding dawns. "Looking for someone with a particular expertise, eh?" He smiles.

Castle smiles in return. Yes, he can work with this.

* * *

><p><em>He's here. He's still <strong>here<strong>._ "You guys didn't go out?"

"No."

After everything, she can't help but file this in the "too good to be true" folder. "Why?"

"Because I can't afford it. Museum just slapped me with a bill for that exhibit I broke." He holds out the sheet of paper for her to see.

_Holy crap!_ She's never seen that many zeroes on a bill. "Whoa!"

"I know! You'd think they'd cut me some slack, after the whole helping to solve the murder thing."

"I guess the least the NYPD can do is take you out for a hamburger."

He pauses a moment, just for effect. "I... accept." _Like I'd ever turn you down, Kate._

"Let's go."

_Burgers and shakes at Remy's with my writer._ This day is turning out a whole lot better than she expected.

"Could put Alexis through _college_ on this."

"Yeah, and med school."

"Thank God I'm rich."

"It's OK, Castle, I don't hold it against you."

* * *

><p>He's having a lot of trouble concentrating, today. He should be working the list, coming up with more ways to narrow it down, but all he can seem to think about is Kate. How she seems to be changing, almost day to day. Why? What's up? Is it <em>really<em> what he thinks - no, _hopes_ - it is?

It all started with the talk in the park, on the swings. He can't remember her _ever_ opening up and talking about herself like that, not once in three years. Sure, there was the time she first told him about her mother's murder. And the times she confessed what that case had done to her, over the years. But those were... tangential things; related to her, but not _of_ her.

As Ryan once said, Beckett isn't a "sharer." But she shared a lot that day. About herself, what she's feeling, what she wants _for herself_. He just doesn't want to read too much into it, but the way she's been acting the past few weeks...

Like after they closed the Lone Vengeance case. That look, that _look_ on her face, when Ann...

"Dad?"

Her voice yanks him out of his reverie so abruptly that he jerks in his chair, almost dropping the laptop on the floor. He snags it with his right hand just as it tips off his lap, and puts it safely back on the desk.

"Sorry, Dad. I didn't mean to startle you."

"No, honey, no. I was just... thinking about something, and not paying attention."

She makes her way into the office, stopping alongside his desk. "Are you writing?"

"Not just now. What do you need?"

"I was talking to Paige this morning. She wants to put together a girl's movie night for Friday and she was wondering if we could do it here. She'll bring the snacks and I'll provide the couch and TV. Would that be OK?"

"No problem. I can make myself scarce for a night."

She beams, and his heart is gladdened. He can still make her smile. Some of the tension has begun to ease, here in the household. She may not like it that he's back at the precinct, but she seems to be making peace with it. They're getting back to normal. Mostly.

She leans in, gives him a smooch on the cheek. "Best. Dad. Ever."

"This is true." He winks at her. "Not that I'm one to brag."

"Thanks! I'll call Paige and let her know."

"You're welcome, pumpkin." And she's off like a shot.

He grants himself a moment to relax, just enjoy having that happy interaction with his daughter.

He sometimes wonders how he got so lucky, to have a daughter like Alexis.

He did his best, raising her alone, trying always to make her feel loved and cherished while not making her spoiled. Lots of hugs, lots of cuddles, but little in the way of material things. But it really wasn't that hard. She just... doesn't ask for things. She almost never asks for _things_. How did that happen? When she was more than smart enough to know that she had a father who could (and probably _would_, she has him wrapped around her little finger and he knows it) buy her almost anything she wanted?

Seeing the troubles so many other parents seem to be having, he's always amazed that he has managed to dodge that bullet. The "wild child" phase that Beckett once warned him about has just never materialized.

Yes, college may have an effect on her, he worries a little about that, but not nearly as much as he could. Though he knows he's going to miss her when she goes, he has faith that college will not change her in any fundamental way. The roots are too deep.

He smiles, one last time, and then reaches for the burner cell in his shirt pocket. He dials Pierce's number from memory. None of the numbers he calls on the burner cells are programmed in; he dials them by hand, every time, and he's made it a habit to clear the call log after every call.

If anyone ever gets hold of one of his burner cells, there will be no easy trail to anyone he cares about.

"Pierce here. What's up, Rick?"

"Wanted to bounce some ideas off you. There has to be a way to speed things up on this. We've still got over 8,000 names on this list. I'll die of old age before we narrow it down to something we can really attack."

* * *

><p>"Is she still doing it?" Ryan asks.<p>

It's the third time in less than an hour. Normally, Javier would be getting annoyed. But he's (secretly) just as into this as Kevin.

"Yeah. She sure is."

"That's, what, almost an hour now?" His back is to them, so he doesn't have to hide his grin. Not even Gates can see it. Javier is the one who has to keep the poker face.

They first noticed it about half an hour after he came in. Beckett keeps stealing glances at him and smiling. Not saying anything, just... smiling.

"What do you think is going on, bro?"

"I don't know, Javi, but something is definitely different."

"What, you're just catching onto that now? What happened to the guy from the break room, the day after she got back? Mister can-you-believe-that?"

Ryan pauses, wondering what Javi caught that he missed. "What? What'd I miss?"

"It's not so much what she's _doing_, it's what she's _not_ doing." He takes a swig of coffee, then continues, "When's the last time you saw her roll her eyes at him? Give him the death glare?"

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean anything's really, you know, _going on_. He was pretty pissed off when he first got back."

"Oh, yeah. He didn't let it show, much, but you could tell. So what?"

"So, maybe she's just making nice... for now. Trying to smooth things over a little."

"Whoa! Cool it, bro. Here they come."

* * *

><p>The pile of paperwork is slowly dissipating, T's crossed and I's dotted and signatures appended. She checks her watch, flashes a quick glance at Castle to see that he is indeed still watching her.<p>

She can feel him looking at her as she does her job, and finds it not just comforting but pleasing, a warm sense of him... caring. Which is crazy, of course. She can remember, dimly, a time when it would have annoyed the hell out of her. But that now feels strangely disconnected from her, like something she once read about, or something that happened to someone she knew. Not her.

How did this happen? How did she get from "You're watching me do paperwork; it's creepy!" to "I've gotten used to you pulling my pigtails" and now "I like to feel his eyes on me when I'm not looking"?

Does he have any idea what he does to her sometimes, just by being there in that chair?

She can't screw this up. She just _can't_.

He straightens in his chair. "I'm going to make another cup. Want one?"

She looks at him and smiles, offers him her mug. Smiling is something she can do, a gift to give him, something to tide him over. "Yes, thanks."

Their fingertips brush as he takes it from her, and she can't help her blink at the touch.

_Please wait, Rick. I'm working on it, I really am._

Something in his expression, a bare glimpse she gets just before he turns to go, catches her attention. There was just a bit of... _knowing_, in that look. And his step as he goes seems lighter, almost jaunty. He seems happier, now, happier than she's seen him since her return.

That's a good thing, right? Of course it is. If he's happy, he'll wait, and she _needs_ him to wait.

The last of the paperwork lies forgotten in front of her. She's lost the thread of thought, sidetracked by her interaction with him. She finds herself doing this a lot, lately, devoting time and energy and thought to what she has privately dubbed "The Castle Initiative." She thinks he would approve of the name, though she'll never tell him about it. Probably.

Then again, it might make for great pillow talk, some day...


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** Not my world, just my words.

* * *

><p>Forgetting your coffee spreading on our flannel,<br>Your lipstick grinning on our coat,  
>So gaily in love's unbreakable heaven<br>Our souls on glory of spilt bourbon float.

Be with me, darling, early and late. Smash glasses -  
>I will study wry music for your sake.<br>For should your hands drop white and empty  
>All the toys of the world would break.<p>

- John Frederick Nims - "Love Poem"

* * *

><p>Idiot. He's an idiot. Why the hell didn't he go with that gut instinct from day one?<p>

How much time has he wasted?

Sift through 40,000 ex-cops and ex-DAs, or cross-reference about 600 members of Congress and state governors?

In the end, it was breathtakingly simple. They procured a list of all the current serving members of Congress, state governors, and the state legislatures of the ten largest states.

They ran the names against their list of possibles.

They eliminated false matches, people with the same name but different birth dates.

There, like magic: three names. _Three_.

Gary Coulter, Congressman from Texas.

Marcus de Boer, Congressman from New York.

Daniel Gossard, Junior Senator from New York.

_Is one of you the Dragon?_

No, dammit, _no!_ This son of a bitch doesn't deserve to be called a Dragon, skulking in the shadows and _paying others_ to do his dirty work. Sleestak, he's a sleestak. One day, soon, Castle's going to see him in chains, meet him face to face and spit in his eye.

He checks the clock, sees that it's already nearly midnight. He has to go with his mother to the bank, see about getting that loan tomorrow morning. The day will start early.

Best to table this and go to bed, attack it fresh tomorrow night. There's always tomorrow.

* * *

><p>She could call him. It's not <em>that<em> late.

He wasn't at the precinct today, pleading meetings with his publishers and his agent about _another_ Derrick Storm graphic novel, maybe two of them. Apparently the first one has been a resounding success, and they want to strike while the iron's hot.

She's a little annoyed with herself over how much it _bothered_ her not to have him there, the hole left in her routine by his absence. How much she missed him, his warm presence in the chair next to her desk. She wants to call, really _wants_ to, but she can't figure out a good excuse to do it at 11:00 at night after both of them have had a long day.

No body drop. No current case. Nothing to build theory on. No excuses.

She needs an excuse.

Why does she need an excuse?

* * *

><p>Torture. It's torture.<p>

"You are nothing but a well-dressed loan shark!"

"Ms Rodgers, I assure you, this is a _very_ competitive interest rate. Considering your financial history - however, if your son co-signs..."

_Hah! An opportunity!_ "Yes!"

"No no no no! This is _my_ loan, _not_ his! To pay for repairs to _my_ acting studio, not his."

He continues, trying to convince her, the triumph of hope over experience, "If you would just let me co-sign the loan - or, I could just _give_ you the money -"

"Richard! I am a business woman now. I do not want your money, I do not want your signature. Thank you very much."

_Then what am I doing here?_

Martha turns her attention back to the bank manager and solemnly intones, "It's the principle."

The manager, not to be outdone, replies, "No, Ms Rodgers, it's the interest."

Unable to bear it any longer, Richard quickly interjects, "And I've just lost mine. Will you excuse me?" He pops up from his chair and beats a hasty retreat.

* * *

><p>Beckett is just getting into her groove on some reports from the last case when the phone trills. Castle? Of course it's Castle. It's almost 10:30, where the hell is he, anyway? Not that she'd give him the satisfaction of hearing her ask.<p>

"What do you want, Castle?"

"Tell me you need me."

_Huh?_ She pauses briefly, flustered. She _must_ have heard him wrong. "Excuse me?"

"I'm stuck at a bank, helping my mother get a loan from my banker. _Please_ tell me that there's a murder somewhere we could be solving?"

_Oh thank God._ "Ah, sorry, there's no dead bodies, just a lot of paperwork." She pauses, then continues, foolishly optimistic, "but you're welcome to come and do your share." Then, for emphasis: "For once."

She can practically hear him scoff. "The only thing worse than being here, is being there doing paperwork."

"You know, how come we're partners when I'm chasing down bad guys, and as soon as there's paperwork, I'm on a solo mission?"

All she gets back in reply is a brief grunt. As if they don't already both know the answer to _that_ question. Because chasing down bad guys is fun and paperwork is boring. And Castle, God help her, is all about _fun._

Well, _almost_ all...

Castle for his part is distracted. Something odd, what the hell is it? "Huh."

"What?"

Too many scrubs. There's already one doctor here, standing at a counter filling out a deposit slip. And another just came in. And she gives the first one a look like she knows him. Like maybe they have a secret.

No big deal, they probably both work at the same nearby hospital.

But why are they both wearing surgical masks pulled down to their chins? And they both have on heavy jackets over their scrubs. And the woman seems to be cradling something inside hers.

_Oh, hell._

"I think this bank is about to be robbed."

"Really? Are you _that_ bored?"

He sidles forward until he's leaning against a partition, his body partly concealed but able to keep both of them in his field of vision. "There's a man and a woman here, dressed in scrubs. Both of them have suspicious bulges in their jackets."

Beckett replies, but he doesn't quite catch it. Something about his writer's imagination, but the alarm bells are going off inside at full volume and he's not really listening. He's turned his attention back to his mother at the manager's desk, thinking about nothing but how he can quietly disengage her from the negotiations and get her the hell out.

So he doesn't even see the third guy come in. He hears it, however, when the man drops some sort of locking bar across the door handles.

**"EVERYBODY GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR!"**

* * *

><p>Three seconds. That's all it takes. Three seconds from harmless ribbing to stark terror. A bank robbery. Castle in the middle of it. Not just Castle, Castle <em>and<em> his mother.

_Alexis._ What if he... if they...

_If something were to happen to me, I want you to watch out for Alexis._

No, she chops that thought off viciously, refusing to consider it. Trained responses take over. Gather information. Evaluate. Act.

"Castle, what's happening?"

No reply. Did the call drop? No, she can hear background noise...

"Where are you?"

"I'm at the New Amsterdam Bank and Trust on Lex."

"Esposito! There's a 10-30, New Amsterdam Bank and Trust on Lex. Call dispatch!"

Ryan stares at her, wondering if she's pulling one on them. "10-30? Since when are we handling bank robbery calls?" Esposito's puzzled expression matches his own.

"Castle's there."

And instantly, partner in trouble, both men are on the phone. Beckett dismisses those issues just as quickly and refocuses on Castle. No idea how long she'll be able to keep him on the line. Get as much intel as possible.

The suspects are pulling money from the cash drawers; they're not working on the vault. That's a good sign, it may be a quick in-and-out and everyone will be fine. But another one has taken the manager's key. That could be bad news, or possibly good. It suggests they might intend to go after the vault or safe deposit boxes (bad) or they want to destroy the security video (good, in that it indicates they're professionals).

Esposito calls across the bullpen, "Yo! We got squad cars en route!"

"Castle, I need you to listen very carefully. How many are there?"

"There are... three."

The sharp, distinctive metallic _click_ of a hammer being cocked comes through on the phone loud and clear, and her heart seizes in her chest.

"Make that four."

She hears the perp's voice in the background, "So, you're the hero I'm gonna make an example of." Then he's speaking to her directly, "Sorry, your friend can't talk right now..."

_Example? Oh God. Stop him, girl, say something!_

"I wouldn't worry about him, I'd worry about yourself. I've got squad cars on their way."

"You're a cop?" He turns his attention to Castle, gun pointing in his face. "You called the cops?"

The muzzle looks gigantic, cavernous. A .45 ACP, the same gun used to kill Steven Fletcher; he knows there will be nothing left of his face if the man pulls the trigger. "No, I - we were already on the line when you guys came in."

Kate continues, trying to distract the perp from whatever he has planned. "Listen to me: so far nobody has been _hurt_, and nothing has been _stolen_. So if you just leave the same way that you came in, you can just disappear."

"You gonna promise not to come look for me?"

The mocking voice is just the wrong thing for her to hear right now; when she replies, it's in her coldest, deadliest tone. "I don't look. I _hunt_. And trust me, you don't want that. So leave now, and this will be just a quirky little article in the Metro section."

For a few seconds, he's quiet and she hopes he's honestly considering it. Then he replies, "Sorry, sweetheart. I'd rather make the front page." She hears a loud crack, probably the phone hitting the floor. Then the connection goes dead.

She stands up, pulling on her jacket. Ryan and Esposito are quick to do the same.

"Let's go."

* * *

><p>She's made no friends with the hostage team, damned sure of that. She's never felt so useless and out-of-control. She's a control freak, and she knows it; it's bad enough on a normal day, but to be in this position when Castle's life is at stake is almost more than she can take.<p>

Ryan and Esposito are waiting for her outside the command post when she comes out. She thinks quickly as they approach. Espo used to be in ESU, he probably still has friends there. Ryan started out in Narcotics, but she knows he has a lot of friends, guys from his academy days, who ended up in Major Crimes.

They can at least gather intel. That's... something. And something is better than nothing.

She's just finishing up giving them their marching orders when she's interrupted by a call from behind.

"Detective Beckett!"

She turns, sees it's the tall, lanky tech officer from the command post. He has cold, dark, no-nonsense eyes.

"Captain Peterson would like a word."

* * *

><p>Apparently she made quite an impression on the perp. He wants to talk to the lady cop "with the bedroom voice." She's never felt less flattered in her life.<p>

Peterson's face looks like he just bit into a lemon. "You wanted in? Well, you're in!"

She tries to demur, protests her lack of training or experience in hostage negotiations. Peterson is having none of it.

"Well, I don't have time to give you a seminar, so think of it like this: you do the _opposite_ of whatever your homicide training tells you. OK? So don't yell, don't bully, don't threaten him in any way. It's all about _keeping him calm_."

She swallows her fear, exerts all the self-control she can muster to meet his eyes.

"Detective. You up for this?"

She's too stressed to even glare at him, out of her depth and terrified for the first time in far, far longer than she can remember.

"Yeah. Yeah, absolutely."

She wants to help, but she knows the limits of her abilities and training. She can't be the reason Castle doesn't walk out of that bank alive.

Her hands are trembling as she puts on the headset and dials.

The perp picks up on the first ring. "Who's this?"

"This is Detective Kate Beckett, I understand that you wanted to speak with me."

"Yeah, I don't like that other guy."

She suppresses a grim smile. "Yeah, me neither." Covering the mic, she glances at Peterson. "You said to build a rapport..."

Peterson merely shrugs, says nothing. Beckett turns her attention back to the phone.

"So, what's your name?"

"You can call me Trapper John."

"A MASH fan. That's nice. So, how you doin'? Anything I can do to help?"

"Oh, Kate, Kate, Kate. You're running that idiot's playbook, aren't you?"

She grits her teeth, looks at Peterson, hoping for some sort of guidance. Nothing.

"What did Captain Confidence tell you? Keep me calm? Build rapport? Extract information? Here's how it's going to work..."

He starts ticking off all the things he really doesn't like, dislikes enough to kill for. Kate's guts churn as she listens to the cold, matter of fact tone. He's not kidding, not bluffing about any of it. Anything doesn't go his way, and people are going to die.

This son of a bitch is determined to be in control of the situation and his interactions with the cops. He saves the kicker for last.

"And, Kate? I'll start with your boyfriend."

The line goes dead.

* * *

><p>The bad news keeps piling up; the odds of a successful raid are almost zero.<p>

Esposito has the 411 from his buddies in ESU.

No eyes or ears inside the bank. No idea where the hostages are being held inside the building, or where the perps are located.

"So what if ESU storms the bank?"

"They'll be going in blind."

She looks at Esposito and asks a question for which she doesn't really want an answer. "And, in your experience, in this scenario, what are the hostages' chances of survival?"

Espo holds her gaze for a long moment, then looks away. He doesn't have to say anything.

_God, please, give us a hand here._

"Come get me when Ryan gets back, even if he doesn't have any real intel. I want the chance to put our heads together on this when he shows up."

* * *

><p>"What the?" The tech officer - <em>Monfriez, his name is Monfriez<em> - pipes up from the other end of the command post. "You see that?"

Kate moves quickly, takes in the bank of video feeds. Several angles on the front of the bank, and she can see what caught his attention.

Flashes of light on the underside of the bank's entryway. Random-looking flashes of light...

_Castle, you beautiful bastard._ "That's Morse code."

She scrabbles for a notepad, begins taking down the letters and digits as they come through.

B 120 SDB 120 SDB 120

Then it just repeats, over and over.

They puzzle over it for several minutes, trying to work out the acronym, until Beckett hits upon the first word "safe" and it falls together almost instantly.

"Safe Deposit Box 120, that's it."

Peterson is more puzzled than happy. "What does a safe deposit box have to do with anything?"

"I don't know, but if Castle went to the trouble of sending that message, it means something."

"Well, how do you know it's him?"

_How do you know the sun will come up in the East tomorrow?_ "Trust me, it's him."

Monfriez speaks up. "Safe deposit box number 1-2-0 belongs to a married couple, Agnes and Gideon Fields."

"Anything special about the box?"

"No, just that bank records show they both access it monthly."

Peterson looks to Beckett for any comment she might have.

"I'll get my team to check it out." With that, she turns and moves quickly toward the door.

* * *

><p>"Yo Beckett! What news?"<p>

"Castle got a message to us."

"What? How? Don't tell me they put him on the phone..."

"No, he had something reflective, a watch face, maybe. He used it to flash a signal onto the entryway where the hostage team's cameras could pick it up."

Ryan catches it immediately. "Morse?"

"Yeah."

Esposito grins at that. "That's our boy, alright."

"So, what was the message?" Ryan is all business, eager to get on with it.

"It was a safe deposit box number."

In perfect unison: "Huh?"

"Yeah, that was more or less our take, too. You two need to find out what the hell is up with it."

"What can you tell us about it?"

"The box is rented by a married couple. Their names are Agnes and Gideon Fields. According to the bank records, they both access it every month. I had Monfriez email the information to both of you."

Ryan speaks first, "OK, so we go talk to these two. Do we assume they are perps or victims?"

"I'm betting victims, but take no chances."

They turn and head for their Crown Vic, moving at a pace just short of a run. Both of them pause as they open their doors, looking back at her. Ryan gives her a thumbs up; Espo just nods.

Then they're gone, leaving her to her own thoughts.

With no more direction, nothing else to do, she's easy prey for her own imagination. The fear is everywhere in her now, gnawing at her guts like rats turned loose within, stealing her will, stealing her ability to think.

It's all well and good for Peterson to say that no move is sometimes the best move. His partner isn't inside. _Partner._

* * *

><p>Victims it is; the rank stench of emptied bowels and decomposition well under way fills the apartment. Agnes has joined her husband in... whatever comes next.<p>

Ligature marks indicate strangulation with something, probably a belt or a fairly thick cord of some sort. Nothing lying nearby that looks like a weapon of opportunity, so the killer probably brought it with him, or improvised and then kept whatever it was to dispose of it elsewhere.

Odds and ends are scattered everywhere, things broken, drawers rummaged. The killer searched the place, either before or after dispatching Agnes.

Esposito places calls to CSU and the ME's office, then dials Beckett with the news.

* * *

><p>Beckett keeps darting in and out of the command post. She doesn't want to miss anything crucial, but the panic is so close that the added stress of the claustrophobic space inside the truck is too much to take for more than short periods of time.<p>

She also wonders if Castle might be able to see her from inside the bank. Maybe her presence would provide some sort of reassurance. She does her best to make herself visible on sight lines to the bank's interior.

_We're out here, Rick. We're gonna get you out._

In and out, in and out. She's probably driving Peterson and his team nuts, but can't bring herself to care.

On her third time ducking out of the post, it occurs to her that Alexis can't possibly know what's going on. Kate hasn't called her, and she's sure neither Kevin nor Javi has, either. She checks her phone, but she doesn't think that she's ever added a contact for Alexis.

No, not in there. She'll have to get in touch with the precinct, have someone look it up for her. She's about to dial the precinct when it rings in her hand, almost startling her into dropping the thing. It's Esposito.

"Looks like the owner of our safety deposit box has been dead maybe a week. Ligature marks on her neck indicate strangulation."

"What'd you find at the crime scene?"

"Place is trashed; killer was looking for something." He leans forward into the fetid miasma of decay and Chanel No 5, lifts out the broken end of a long keychain from around her neck. "There's a broken keychain necklace on the body, but there's no key."

"OK, that might have been where she kept the key for the safe deposit box." She listens as the two detectives go back and forth briefly about possible contents of the safe deposit box, but there's nothing useful until Ryan pipes up with a discovery.

"It's a bug. It's not from a spy shop, either; this looks professional." She looks over her shoulder and her heart drops as she recognizes the strawberry hair and pale blue eyes of Castle's daughter, not 30 feet away.

She has a moment to process the fact that the the killer had Agnes under surveillance _before_ killing her and searching her home; she'll need to discuss that further with Kevin and Javi later, but she now has something more important to do.

"Listen, I need you to dig up everything you can on Agnes Fields. I gotta go."

* * *

><p>"They're here, aren't they? My Dad and Gram are in there, I know they were coming to this bank, and now noone's answering their phones; my Dad <em>always<em> takes my calls, and _you're_ here!"

Beckett draws on all her strength and self-control to present a stoic face to Castle's daughter. She can't let her own fear transmit to Alexis; if she does, the two of them will spin out of control together. "Listen, listen, everything is going to be fine, OK? But they _are_ inside that bank."

Alexis watches Beckett's face, studying, looking for clues. She knows the woman is trying to reassure her, but what she needs is the truth. And she doesn't really trust Beckett to give it to her. Last year she might have, but not after the previous summer. Not after what she did.

Kate, for her part, is picking up on a strange vibe here, a tension in Alexis that seems strangely unrelated to any panic over her father's predicament. _What the hell is this?_ The girl looks like she doesn't trust Kate, in fact as if she doesn't even _like_ Kate.

"They're in there, and I can't get Dad on his phone - how did _you_ get here? How did you know?"

"I was on the phone with your father when it happened."

"And you didn't call me? How long has this been going on?"

Alexis is fighting for control, hating that she has to go through this woman to have any sort of influence, this woman who has taken over her father's life, who takes everything he offers her and gives nothing in return. She wants to scream at Beckett, rage at her for putting her father in danger over and over, taking him for granted and then crushing his heart.

_What is it? Why does he keep going back to her? How does she make him happy?_

But she can't do it, not to her father, she can't let herself punish Kate for her cruelty when it will just hurt her father more.

Alexis can feel the tears of rage and terror brimming, trying to force their way free. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Nothing, we're doing everything we can."

"Don't you understand? They're all I've got! You hear me? They're all I've got!"

Kate grips her arms and it takes everything Alexis has to let her do so, to allow the contact instead of shaking her off.

"Alexis, listen to me, I promise you, they are going to be OK."

_Promise me? Promise me? Who are **you** to make promises?_ "They'd better."

Kate blinks at the harsh undertone in the girl's voice. No, there's no love lost here, none at all.

Monfriez calls to her from the door. "Beckett! Incoming call!"

Kate gives Alexis one backward glance.

She needs to talk to Ryan and Esposito about the events of the previous summer. Soon.

* * *

><p>"We could use this sick hostage to our advantage..."<p>

It's a risky plan, she knew it when she said those words, but it's closer to her field of expertise. She can do something she _knows_ how to do instead of stumbling through this like a rookie fresh out of the academy.

She sits, rubbing her hands together nervously, running over and over the plan in her mind as she waits. Two minutes later Monfriez ushers in the paramedic. She's roughly Beckett's height, maybe 10 pounds heavier, a little wider in the hips, a little smaller up top. Close enough; the uniform has some room.

Beckett starts stripping out of her top, heedless of the other people in the command post. She holds her top out to the paramedic, motions for the woman to step it up, step it up, time's wasting.

Peterson ostentatiously turns away, motions to his team to do the same, giving Kate and the paramedic a bare semblance of privacy as they swap clothing.

Monfriez is busy at his console, but not too absorbed to spare Beckett a cool, speculative glance. He smiles briefly, then turns back to his work.

* * *

><p>She focuses on the gurney, moving it straight and true up the ramp toward the bank entrance. She gets one shot at this, and she's not going to screw it up.<p>

Just a paramedic, a rescue worker who happened to be on call. Now she's going to do her job. Nothing to see here, you miserable bastards.

What she didn't count on is the sight that greets her as she comes through the door.

Him. It's him. Crouching over the fallen hostage, doing his best to help. Of course he would, no way Richard Castle is going to sit back and let this all unfold as he waits passively for his fate.

The stubborn, reckless, beautiful fool.

The sight of him there almost undoes her, the terror leaping up into her throat. She closes her eyes, grits her teeth. Nobody special, just another schmuck who happened to be at the bank when this all went down.

She's able to look at him calmly as she lets them pat her down for weapons. It should be obvious she's carrying nothing; the paramedic's uniform fits her snugly, nowhere to hide a piece, but they check her anyway.

The interaction is at once heartbreakingly brief and nightmarishly endless. No time, no time, no time to say all the things she needs to say. Is this what he felt as he knelt above her in the cemetery?

She speaks to him in code, some things don't change even on a day like this, the words for her "patient" and for Castle alone. She grips his hand and tells him they're going to get him out, just hang tight, she swears they'll get him out of there.

Then his note is tucked in her hand, the hostage is strapped onto the gurney, and she's wheeling him back out again.

No time!

She looks back, terrified that this is it. This is the last time she'll ever see him. All the things she might never get to say are a dead weight in the center of her chest.

Then the door closes upon him and she's left with a hostage and a note and the cold tactical intel that her mind somehow managed to gather almost despite itself.

She hands the hostage off to the real paramedics before moving immediately to meet Castle's daughter at the barricades.

"Your dad's OK," she offers quickly, as she unfolds the note.

Then she reads what he's written, and a day that seemed to have hit rock bottom becomes far, far worse.

C4. The robbers have high explosives inside the bank with them. No way they're going into the bank now.

Alexis sees her expression, knows instantly that Beckett is hiding something.

"Alexis, I need you to go behind that yellow line, now!"

* * *

><p>The report is deafening through the headset, and everything inside her tightens, like someone took a wrench to the bolts that hold her together and turned them a half-turn clockwise all at once.<p>

"What was that?"

"A warning shot, Kate. The next one's for the kill!"

She can hear Martha's voice over the phone, shouting, cursing at the perp.

"I'm gonna make pretty red stains out of your boyfriend, Kate. I've got my gun to his throat and I'm gonna paint a Jackson Pollock with his insides!"

Peterson is at her shoulder, pressing her, compounding the panic that's clawing at her throat, the scream battering at the walls of her self-control. "You need to calm him down!"

"Listen to me, jackass, I do _not_ control _traffic_! So you're gonna have to give me 20 minutes!"

"Now you've got 1 minute, Kate!"

"**NO!** I've got **TWENTY!** Do you hear me? Twenty! Because if you pull that trigger, I will walk through those doors and _personally_ put a bullet through your skull!"

The truth of what she has said is a terrible epiphany. Not that she would kill him in reprisal, of course she would, but that she doesn't care if his 3 partners mow her down in the process.

In that instant she realizes that if Castle dies today, she doesn't care if she lives or dies. Death would be a merciful release.

The seconds slip past, excruciating, drop behind etched in her memory like a ship's wake at midnight, phosphorescent. Are these the final seconds of Castle's life, and hers?

All the things she could have said to him...

"OK, Kate. You've got 20 more minutes."

The connection goes silent.

She's going to throw up, she knows it, she's going to lose her coffee and bear claw all over the console or her shoes, doesn't matter which...

Peterson's wry voice brings her back to reality, gallows humor at its finest. "Well, I guess that's _one_ way to negotiate."

She doesn't know if she's going to laugh or slap him senseless. The urge to vomit departs, either way.

* * *

><p>The concussion rocks the van, the explosion painfully loud even inside. Time stops.<p>

Her mind stops.

Her heart stops.

When everything starts moving again an instant later, an eternity later, she's aware of her phone dropping through nerveless fingers to clatter on the floor. She hears Esposito's voice, tinny and distant, shouting at her for information, but she's beyond answering; she kicks the phone blindly aside as she staggers toward the exit.

All she can see is a billowing cloud of dust in front of the bank; ESU personnel and uniforms staggering blindly out of the murk, balance destroyed by the shock wave that rattled their brains in their skulls.

Glass is everywhere, she sees people nursing wounds where the flying glass sliced through fabric and skin.

Most of all, she sees her future, a future bleak and hopeless and utterly devoid of joy. There will never be another Castle to rescue her from herself, to... _infect_ her with his simple, childlike zest for life.

She'll never make it. She put herself back together after her mother; she'll never be able to do it again. Whatever's left will be hollow and cold and utterly useless to any other human being, ever.

One thought cuts through the fog, at once horrible and comforting.

_I still have my gun._

* * *

><p>She sprints for the car, pops the trunk, hauls out her flak vest. Slips it over her head and slaps the velcro together purely by reflex, muscle memory, motions repeated thousands of times.<p>

No thought required, her mind far away, gibbering in blind panic. She can't pull it together, can't bring her mind back to bear.

A small voice in the back of her mind tries to bring her back to herself, to say he could still be alive, he could still be alive, he could still be...

She scrabbles for her backup piece, her primary sidearm left inside the command post, lying forgotten on the console next to Monfriez' video feeds. As her hand closes on it, the cacophony in her head recedes as she repeats that coldly comforting thought.

_I still have my gun._

But first she has to know. She has to _know_.

The ESU team is hastily assembling at the doors, regrouping without their injured squadmates. They barely notice Beckett as she forms up with them, ready to advance into the bank when the signal comes.

Then they're moving, moving forward into the darkened bank, the dust still drifting all around them. Her flashlight pierces the murk as she moves quickly, all cold purpose and determination.

"Castle!"

No response.

_"Castle?"_

Still no response, and she's losing control, the terror is finally going to get the best of her, and the next time she calls out it's almost a panicked shriek...

**_"CASTLE!"_**

She grips the gun so hard the tendons in her wrist _creak_.

It will only take a second.

She'll find his lifeless body, and it will be over in an instant...

"Beckett?"

She wants to scream with relief, but she can't trust her own ears, her mind could be failing her, broken, inventing a fantasy. _Not until I can touch him._

She leans up against the bars at the back of the bank, shining her flashlight into the darkness, and there they are in the safe deposit box room, how _fitting_, all packed together in a space too small for them, but she pays no heed to them at all, her attention focused like a laser on one face.

He waves. _Waves._

_He's alive! Alive! Alive! Alive!_

She ducks through the gate, moving as quickly as she can on legs that suddenly feel like rubber, the adrenaline afterburn leaving her dizzy and shaky, holding it together with nothing but the knowledge that he made it, they both made it.

She hides none of it, none of her relief and hope and unadulterated joy, letting it shine out at him, nothing held back, her face alight.

Even after she cuts his bonds, it's not enough, she has to reach out, touch him, confirm the reality of him. The joy blossoms on her face anew, she beams, _beams_ at him.

_That's the look,_ he thinks, unable to move, unable to breathe. _The look a man will work his whole life and die to get just once from the right woman._

He's exquisitely aware of everything, the touch of her hand at his lapel, her shining eyes, the way her entire face is _transfigured_ by joy.

He wants to reach up but he can't move; wants to hold her hand in place with his own, then lean forward and...

"He's not the only one here, you know..."

* * *

><p>She can't stop. She knows she must look like a lunatic, but she can't, she just can't, she simply <em>can't<em> stop smiling at him. Her cheeks hurt and her lips are going to start chapping and cracking and _still_ she smiles.

Her partner. Here. Alive. _Alive._

It doesn't help that she's three glasses into the bottle of incredible vintage red that his mother uncorked before they arrived, pleasantly full of delicious food, tipsy and floating on a blissful cloud of shared time and happy voices.

Even Alexis was happy and friendly, whatever grudge she's holding against Kate either forgiven or banked temporarily in the afterglow of her family's survival.

She sprawls gracelessly on the couch, big wide comfortable couch, glass of wine in hand and shoes kicked carelessly... somewhere else, forgotten. She waits for Castle to finish up in the kitchen; she tried to help with the dishes but he shooed her out, all wry grin and crinkled eyes and pure, unadorned happiness at having her here, with them. His family. All of them alive and unharmed.

"Get out, get out, get out! I'll bring more tiramisu in a minute. Go take a load off, eh?"

So she waits, load shed, wine in hand and waiting for him, waiting for the sweetness of the dessert and the elation she knows she'll feel when she sees his face, every time she sees his face, this night and all the days to come.

She knows she's not ready for this, has had time to regather and regroup and remind herself of all the reasons she hasn't pushed forward yet, but she doesn't care about it tonight.

For just one night she's not going to worry about how broken she still is, how she's terrified of screwing up this beautiful thing she's building with him, with Castle. She's just going to enjoy, enjoy the food and the wine and the warm company and the living, breathing presence of him. Tomorrow can take care of itself.

And then he's there, two plates of tiramisu in his left hand, the last quarter bottle in his right. He takes her in, the sight of her, and the pure simple happiness in his eyes is everything she needs to see.

They're going to make it. They are. She'll see to it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** Not my world, just my words.

* * *

><p><em>Cowgirl Up, Beckett<em>.

She _so_ does not want to hear the answers to these questions, doesn't want to ask them, doesn't want _them_ knowing that _she_ wants to know.

But there's nobody else. And she _needs_ to know. "Guys?"

They look up from the cups rapidly filling with espresso. Eyes still a little glazed over, waiting for that first morning shot of coffee, not yet part of the land of the living. Precinct of the Living Dead.

"Yeah, Beckett?"

"I need to ask you something."

Something in her tone puts them on guard, and for a few seconds, neither offers anything. Finally, Esposito decides to risk it.

"'Bout what?"

She pauses briefly, biting her lip, wishing she'd rehearsed her questions before coming in.

"Last summer."

If she was nervous before, the poker faces that appear now make her downright panicky.

Ryan speaks first. "What do you want to know, boss?" He puts a strange emphasis on the last word, as if he's implying that anything they tell her is going to be coerced, not freely given. Just following orders.

_Jesus, just how bad was it?_

She had been planning to just prompt them with a general question, see what she could get, then ask for specifics if she had to. Now she's wondering if they'll volunteer any information at all beyond yes/no answers to specific questions.

Are _they_ holding a grudge against her?

"Castle. How bad did it get?"

And yes, they do exactly what she expected. The quick partner-check look, unspoken communication.

Esposito begins, "With all due respect..."

Ryan finishes, "We would prefer not to discuss that. What's done is done, right?"

What else did she think they would do? They both love the guy, too.

"Guys, I don't want to put you on the spot..."

"Then don't." Espo's voice is downright icy.

"Please. I'm asking you as a friend, not a boss. Just tell me, guys."

Wow. They look at each other again, and this time the look is followed by a shrug. Esposito nods at Ryan, giving him the go-ahead.

"It was... really bad. He was in here at all hours, coming in weekends."

"Guy looked like he wasn't sleeping _at all_. Naps here and there, maybe."

"By July, he looked like a walking corpse."

She chews on the inside of her cheek, holding back tears. No _way_ is she going to do that here, in the break room, in front of her team.

"So, it was really obvious? His daughter would have seen it, right? His mother?"

They look at each other again. Ryan answers, "Beckett, a _blind_ man would have noticed. Everybody in the precinct was worried sick about the guy."

"Except Gates." Her voice was bitter.

Esposito makes no effort whatsoever to hide his anger, just grits out, "Gates never _bothered_ to notice. First damn day here, she kicked him out before he could even finish a cup of coffee."

* * *

><p>"OK, Pierce, I've been deep-diving into these three guys for the past week." <em>And I'm about ready to start pulling my hair out,<em> he doesn't add.

"And what have you found? I'm sitting around, twiddling my thumbs these days."

"Nothing, really, for you to do. I can handle this part on my own."

"So, what do you have, so far?"

"At least we can cross Coulter off the list, which leaves us two."

"Why are you dropping him?"

"His story checks out. Coulter was a transplant from Texas. His family is old oil money. He inherited almost twelve million when his Grandfather died in 1995, on the condition that he return to Texas and work in the family business. Which he did, for 10 years, before he ran for Congress."

"Hmmm, inherit eight figures and live in Texas, or work as a traffic cop in NYC? Think he had to ponder that choice for long?"

"Have you ever spent a summer in Texas?"

"No; have you?"

"Just three weeks, but that was enough. General Sheridan was right."

"Sheridan?"

"General Philip Sheridan; he was a Union Army General during the Civil War. He was a New York boy, too. Ruthless SOB, burned crops all along the Shenandoah Valley in 1864, then he ended up commanding an Army during the Mexican War. He met up with some news reporter in New Orleans while on his way home from _that_ war, and the guy asked him what he thought of Texas. Sheridan apparently didn't know the guy was a reporter, so he gave his opinion... unvarnished."

"Which was?"

"He said: 'If I owned Texas and Hell, I'd rent out Texas and live in Hell.'"

Pierce doesn't outright laugh, but he does chuckle pretty loudly. "OK, I get it. So, what about the other two? The Gossard guy, and de Boer?"

"I'm having a lot more trouble with those two. Supposedly de Boer also inherited some money in the early 90s, but I haven't been able to find any real public documents to confirm that, other than a few news articles. And we _both_ know how accurate _those_ can be."

"What about court documents, information about probate? Wouldn't that all be a matter of public record?"

"Not necessarily. In his case, what few documents I've even been able to get a lead on have turned out to be sealed."

"And Gossard?"

"Supposedly he made his money trading in the futures markets. Again, the account information seems to be impossible to get at this point. There are no laws requiring that private investors make the details of their transactions public, even if they run for office."

"Did he do his trading through any of the major online services? I might be able to hack into their records systems."

"No. It was an affiliate of Goldman-Sachs, a boutique brokerage house. It shut down in 2002. Doesn't look like any detailed records have been kept from the early 90s. Apparently they're not required to keep them longer than 10 years."

"Great. So, what now?"

"What now, indeed. I was just hoping you might have some ideas."

"Not off the top of my head. Can you send me whatever you _have_ found? Might spark something."

"I'll have it to you in an hour. Thanks, Pierce."

"Any time, Rick."

* * *

><p>"So, what do you think?"<p>

The stream of espresso is just starting to taper off to those final drops, and the aroma is just _fantastic_, he must have tamped it down _just right_, and Esposito is too distracted by the anticipation to register what Ryan has said. All he can manage is a brief "huh?"

"What do you think?"

_Man, can't you smell that? That's a God shot, and you're distracting me?_ "About what?"

Ryan just stares at him, "duh" coming across loud and clear, and nods over through the blinds toward Beckett and Castle at her desk.

"Oh." Of course, third most popular topic of conversation at the 12th, just behind "women" and "sports." He disengages the portafilter, knocks out the grounds into the trash can. Then he grabs a paper towel to wipe off the more tenacious grains. When he's done, he takes a sip of the coffee (oh man that is _awesome_). "I think she's getting ready."

Ryan grins, almost bouncing on his toes. "Yeah, me too."

"You think the bank was a wake-up call?"

"Big time, yeah, but it's been going on since she got back. I think it just... accelerated, that's all."

"She _smiles_ at him - "

"All the time, now."

"Used to be he couldn't get a smile out of her with a crowbar, but now..."

"At the drop of a hat. Yeah, she's not even trying to hide 'em."

* * *

><p>It's a little thing, really. Just a few seconds, something he catches entirely by accident, only because he happened to be looking that way.<p>

She's coming out of the break room, coffee mug in hand, and almost collides with two uniforms walking past.

Without breaking stride, not so much as a stutter in her step, she smoothly transfers the mug from her left hand to her right, pivoting onto her right foot and turning a full 360 degrees, avoiding the collision by no more than an inch or two as the unis pass just behind her back.

As she comes out of the spin the mug goes back to her left hand and she ends up walking directly toward her desk.

She doesn't spill a drop.

She doesn't even blink.

His chest constricts, and he's sure his heart skips a beat.

He's seen so many different faces of her; hair short and mannish, or long chestnut waves; coiffed and immaculate, frizzy and messy; in jeans, in leather, in formal dresses that cling like a desperate lover. She's exquisite in repose, but in motion?

When she moves, _God_ when she moves...

When she moves, she's the soul of grace.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** _For those of you who have been following this story, I'm sorry for the long break since the last update. My work schedule has been particularly bad for the past few months, and I've mostly been too exhausted to write. I was able to take a vacation in July and get caught up a bit on my rest, and the creative bug has bitten me again. I really do appreciate the interest in this little tale, and hope to be able to squeeze in some more writing time in the coming weeks. With a little luck, I can finish it before the next season begins - can't wait for September 24th, can you?_

_A reader who shall remain nameless (you know who you are) was kind enough to PM me recently and point out that my story summary would be good if this had been a one-shot, but doesn't describe it very well at all, now that it's into double-digit chapters and almost 40,000 words. So, I've updated the summary (and added disclaimers to previous chapters)._

_Thanks to all of you, once again, for reading. I would probably be writing it anyway, for the creative release, but it still means a lot to me that there are people who seem to be truly enjoying this. I'll try not to make you wait so long for the next update._

**Disclaimer:** Not my world, just my words.

* * *

><p>The sorrowful spirit finds relaxation in solitude.<br>It abhors people, as a wounded deer deserts the herd and lives in a cave until it is healed... or dead.  
>- Kahlil Gibran<p>

* * *

><p>She still has the nightmares. They're not as frequent, and they don't have the power that they once did.<p>

She won't tell him. There's nothing he can do, and anyway they aren't as bad as that first horrible night. The whole thing was too fresh then, no shared experiences with him between shooting and dream to soften the impact.

Now, there are months and months of shared mornings and evenings and "hi Dad, I'm home" and laser-tag matches and zombie-movie marathons and happy-face pancakes to reassure her when she awakens, gasping in the night, wondering whether she screamed out loud. Just a dream, that's all.

Just a dream.

But this one was really bad, the worst in months; she found him and the bullet had gone straight through, through him and into _her_, and her blood was pouring out on the grass but he was trying to hold himself above her, crazy dream logic as he tried to pour his escaping blood _into_ her, to keep her alive, and he wouldn't stop, she pounded uselessly on his back and screamed at him to stop, to save himself and stay with his daughter, she wasn't worth it anyway.

Not worth leaving his daughter for, she doesn't love him back, doesn't love anything except her own suicidal quest for justice.

She gets up, pads quietly to the bathroom and gets a glass of water. She doesn't turn on the light, just in case he's awake down in the living room, or in his office with the door open. He might see it, then come to check on her. The nightlight is plenty, more than enough for her to see herself in the mirror. She looks too closely, hating the haunted expression she can't seem to control.

She knows she's not being fair to Beckett, remembers the look on her face that night she came to have dinner with them, after the bank robbery. She was so _open_ that night, not guarding her movements and her expressions. Alexis lost count of how many times Beckett reached out to touch her father's arm through the course of dinner, and all the smiles with which she favored him.

There's _something_ there, but she can't puzzle out what it is, and it just doesn't seem to be her place to ask.

But none of it changes the cold, hateful logic in her dreams, where it's all black and white and hard, straight edges.

She doesn't want to hate the woman her father loves.

But that woman won't play straight with him, and she can't forget that, either.

* * *

><p>The game is exasperating, all the more so because she's been fighting a queasy sensation all morning and these antics, this weird kabuki that they're staging, is just making it worse.<p>

"You guys, you don't have to avoid the word on my account."

Esposito glances at Lanie, looks back, all feigned innocence. "What word?"

"Sniper."

Castle speaks up next to her. "Even I noticed."

Lanie tries to bluff her way through it, a lost cause, as she ought to know, "We weren't avoiding anything, we..."

Esposito cracks first (of course), "It was her idea. She..."

Lanie's glare (_traitor_) is especially amusing to Castle, because he's so used to seeing it on Beckett's face. _It's a woman thing, not just a Beckett thing._ But then, he knew that, too.

"Look guys, I'm a big girl, so let's just cut to the chase. How good is this guy?"

"Well, he's as good as any of the shooters -" Javi stops, grimaces slightly, "- _snipers_ in my unit." He motions, continues, "He took out a moving target from a quarter mile away."

Beckett leans a bit closer, looking at the young woman's body. When she speaks, there's something in her voice that digs into Castle's gut just a little. "Did she feel it?"

Lanie answers quickly, instinctively, "No. She died instantly."

For a moment, nobody says anything. Things just shifted weirdly, and everyone seems to be quietly adjusting to a new and unfamiliar dynamic.

Beckett is the first to continue, adopting a brisk, businesslike tone, almost like she grasps the change but wants to force things back to normal. "So then I guess the question is: why did the sniper target Sarah?" She looks up at Esposito. "Any leads on the guy that she said was following her?"

A thought occurs to Castle, but it smacks far too heavily of worst-case scenario and he doesn't want to voice it yet. He waits, instead, to hear what Esposito will say.

"No one in her circle remembers seeing the guy, and she didn't mention him to anyone but her fiance."

_OK, get it out there. _"Maybe he didn't have anything to do with it."

Beckett looks at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Well, usually we find our killers by knowing our victims, finding a motive. But... what if there isn't one?" He pauses, not wanting to say it, but it's too late to stop now. "What if she was shot... at random? How do we find him then?"

Silence reigns for a few seconds as everyone chews on the idea, none of them liking the taste.

Finally Esposito pipes up. "If it's random, the whole thing gets a lot tougher."

"It's going to be tough enough even if it isn't," Beckett continues, "No sense psyching ourselves out at this point. We keep doing our jobs as we normally do. We'll figure it out soon enough." She seems to have made some internal decision. "Lanie, let us know if you find anything else."

With that she pivots and heads for the door. Esposito gives Lanie a smile and a nod, then turns to leave as well.

Beckett stops at the door, turns to look at Castle. "You comin', Castle?"

But Castle is looking at Lanie, thinking once again about that horrible day, and thoughts that had crossed his mind as they waited for news. Things he'd intended to do, to say, but never had. He turned to follow Beckett, quietly dropping his phone on the table next to him.

The three of them are halfway down the hall when he stops. "Sorry, I think I left my phone..." He motions back to the morgue, "...go ahead, I'll catch up."

* * *

><p>Lanie looks up as he re-enters the morgue. "Forget something, Castle?"<p>

He glances around the room, ostensibly looking for his phone but also checking that they are alone.

He steps over to the table and scoops it up, pockets it, then stops to look at her.

"Something on your mind, Castle?"

Yes. Yes, something is on his mind. "Thank you, Lanie."

Her brows knit, briefly. "You're welcome. For what?" She's giving him that intense look she gets when she's examining a body, looking for answers.

"For being such a good friend to her."

Her gaze softens, and she gives him that wonderful smile of hers. She's such a lovely woman. Beckett's friend, her good and loyal friend. "Yeah, well, it isn't always easy."

"It must have been rough, after she came back in the fall."

"We had our discussions. Some of them were pretty high-volume. How about you?"

He flashes back on the book signing, to sitting on the swings. He doesn't really want to talk about that. It's a memory he wants to reserve to himself. Especially the look in her eyes as she spoke about the kind of relationship she wanted; he thinks about it often, taking it out and considering it, as fine silver is taken out and polished to keep it bright.

"We... worked it out."

"Yeah." She gives him a too-knowing look, and a significant pause. "So, you seem to be working together pretty well..."

He is _so_ not going there right now. It would go from Lanie straight to Kate, and then he'd never hear the end of it. "Yes, we're... back in the groove, I guess."

"Mm-hmm. Well, if there's nothing else, I've still got an autopsy to finish here..."

"No, I'm done pestering you. See you later, Dr. Parish."

* * *

><p>He dashes from the elevator, shouting as he goes. "I know what the paper dolls mean!"<p>

Gates is, shockingly, not in any mood to listen. "Mr. Castle! Now is not the time for your theatrics."

"Captain, just listen. The paper dolls are _predictive!_ The dolls are cut out of paintings that _literally_ tell us the location of the next target." He turns toward the murder board, motions to the dolls tacked there. "The one we found at the first shooting? It comes from a painting called 'The Persecution of Kings.'"

As much as she annoys and stymies him, he has to admit she's quick on the uptake. "Henry Wyatt was killed on King Street."

"Exactly. The one that we found in the hideout at the second shooting? That's from a painting called 'The Fall from Grace.'"

Beckett pipes up immediately, "there's a Grace Avenue in the Bronx."

Ryan follows her with, "Grace Church is on 10th Street and 4th Avenue."

"And there's about a dozen other possibilities. If we can narrow it down, we might be able to stop him...", he pauses as phones begin to ring, "before..." he trails off as more and more phones light up, ringing, mocking him. _Too late! Oh, God, why did I take the cab here? Why didn't I just call, first? How much time did I waste?_

The taste of failure is bitter. Is someone dead because of his mistake?

* * *

><p>He stands outside the door, listening, totally at a loss as to what he should do.<p>

She's so invested in her image: the tough cop, unflappable, invulnerable. He knows, _very_ well, how much she _hates_ to appear weak. Trying to comfort her could - no, _would_ - make it worse, not better. And so he grits his teeth, squelches the urge to go in, find her, comfort her. He backs away from the door and waits for her to emerge.

She doesn't meet his eyes when she reappears, just heads for the elevators, not even asking him to follow. He falls in behind her, accompanies her to the conference room on the 15th floor.

CSU is already on the job, and there's very little they could determine from the scene that CSU won't be reporting to them soon enough, so they leave after no more than a few minutes.

She still hasn't looked him in the eye, and he knows that she knows that he heard her. A mortified Kate Beckett is so far outside his experience that he can't even begin to process it, much less figure out how to handle her.

The drive back to the precinct is tense and silent; when they reach the 12th, Kate splits off to head for the morgue. She still won't look at him.

Every time he closes his eyes he can hear it, the sound of her breaking down, choking sobs from behind that closed door.

It _kills_ him that he can't help. He has no experience to work from, no real idea what she's going through. He's just... not the one who can help her.

But he knows who is.

Instead of following her to the morgue, he takes the opportunity to head up to the bullpen, track down Esposito. He catches the detective coming out of the break room.

"Esposito!"

"Yeah, Castle?"

"We need to talk. Right now."

"About?"

"Beckett."

Javi says nothing, just looks at him expectantly.

_Oh God, he knows already. Of course he does._

"She's spinning out of control; she's losing her ability to cope."

At the sound of the elevator, Castle looks up and sees her; he nods toward it and Espo turns to follow his gaze. They both see the haunted, shifting eyes of the woman as the doors slide open to reveal her.

Castle can't help but state the obvious, because it seems nobody else is willing to say it; dammit, _he_ will. "She should _not_ be on this case."

Esposito pauses at this, knowing exactly what would happen if they tried to stop her. He turns back to Castle. "Well, she's not just going to walk away."

"No, she's going to drive herself into the ground." And this is why he came to Espo, not Ryan and - for God's sake - not the Captain. "And you're the only one who has any clue as to what she's going through. So, what helped you?"

They both turn back to look at her, watching as she moves toward her desk. It's heartbreaking; the Kate Beckett they both know is nowhere to be seen. This woman moves like a hunted animal, hunched over and drawn in, like she's trying to present the smallest possible target.

Castle tears his gaze away; he can't bear to see her so beaten down, so broken. _Is this what she was like last summer? Is this why she didn't want me there?_

"Please, brother. You have to at least _try_."

* * *

><p>"Javi, I'm <em>fine<em>." But her eyes tell a different tale; they are wide and dark and terrified.

_Oh Jesus, Javi. I'm not fine; I can't even SEE fine from here. Please, help me._

"You're _not_ fine. You're just trying to _act_ like you are." When she doesn't respond, he motions with the gun, presenting it to her, and continues, "This is just a tool. It's a hunk of steel. It has no magical powers, and the person that fired it is not some... all-powerful _god_." He moves slowly along his side of the table, until he's standing directly opposite her. "He's just a guy, with a gun. Just like the guy we're hunting now. And like every other bad guy, he's damaged goods."

He pauses then, not sure how to continue, watching as Kate's face works and she swallows, trying to get something out, some words to respond. When she finally speaks, he's shocked at her words.

"So am I."

_Christ, Beckett. I had no idea you were this far gone. Why didn't you talk to me? _But of course, he _knows_ why she didn't. Because she's Beckett, and Detective Kate Beckett will never admit to weakness. Not to her friends, her family, not to anyone. For a moment he can't even speak, so floored by the raw honesty of her response.

"That's right. And that's OK. You think it's a weakness? Make it a strength." He holds the gun out to her. "It's a part of you - so _use_ it."

He waits, holding out the gun. Her tear-streaked face looks like a stranger; not since the Coonan shooting has he ever seen her cry. For just a second, he doubts, wondering if she's just too broken. Put enough pressure on, and anyone will eventually crack. Then she moves forward, and he breathes a silent sigh of relief as she takes the gun from him.

She looks at the gun, feeling its heft, the reality of it. _A man pointed this at me. He looked at me through this scope, and squeezed the trigger, wanting me dead._ She looks at Espo, finally, and nods. He returns the nod, then quietly turns and leaves.

It's all he can do. She's Kate Beckett; she'll work it out.

As he's walking back into the bullpen, he crosses paths with Stegner. She catches his eye, hands him the Grace Point Tower report from CSU. He skims it quickly, and something catches his eye.

He fired a 168 grain bullet at Emily, just as he did with Sarah and Henry. _He knew he was going to be shooting through glass, but he still used 168s, not the 165s. He didn't know!_

"Stegner, where's the Captain?"

"She's back in conference 2 with Ryan and Castle."

"Thanks."

* * *

><p>He's dead. Lee Travis is dead. Javi called him from the scene, gave him the news. It was close... again.<p>

She's got more lives than a cat. When will her luck run out? When will she shake off his advice, try to pick the case back up?

It's just a matter of time.

He has to do it. It's crossing a line, a huge risk, but he has to take it. There's only so much information he can get through legitimate channels, so much he can infer from their past actions and associations.

He knows who to call. He'll do it tonight.

He's still sitting next to her desk, thinking through the details, when she appears next to him. He glances up. "Hey."

"Hey," she responds, taking her seat. "What are you doing?"

He takes a breath, gets a grip on his hurt and anger. A little of it comes through, nonetheless. "Just waiting for my partner. Maybe you've seen her? Pretty girl." She looks down, unable to meet his eyes as he continues. "Thinks she can leap tall buildings in a single bound, carries the weight of the world on her shoulders, yet still manages to laugh at some of my jokes."

He's smiling, just a little, at the end.

She looks back up at him, mulling over her response. It's still too soon, everything too raw for her to be truly honest, so she tries for something a tiny bit playful instead. She can't quite hold his eye, looking away as she speaks. "She sounds like a handful."

He shakes his head ruefully. "Tell me about it." Now it's his turn to look away, to hide the truth in his eyes from her. "Anyway, if you do see her," he looks back at her significantly, "tell her she owes me about... a hundred coffees."

_Maybe we're OK. He's angry, but we're still OK. How can I make it up to him?_

He gets up, ready to head home, get back to his real job, the one that still consumes his nights and the days that they have no case to work together.

"Castle?" Her voice is quiet, tentative, so unlike her normal tone that it stops him in his tracks, makes him turn. He just watches her, waiting, the question unspoken.

For the first time since the Grace Point Towers, she looks him straight in the eye as she speaks. "Thank you."

He's actually a little puzzled. "For what?"

"For not pushing, and... giving me the space to get through this."

It's this, this veiled admission that she understands what he's been doing, restraining himself in the face of her distress, that melts the last of his resentment. Finally he can look her in the eye, give her an honest, gentle smile. "Always."

She ponders this as he goes, warmed by it as she has been every time he's said it since the Lockwood takedown. It means so much, so many layers of hope and devotion conveyed with that single word. She pauses, looking down at her hands clasped together in her lap. And finally, she makes a decision that she's been avoiding for a very long time.

Her appointment with Burke is in an hour. Maybe something good can come of all this, after all.

* * *

><p>He waits until he's well clear of the precinct doors, walking briskly through the sparse early-afternoon foot traffic, before he pulls out the burner phone.<p>

Checking his six, he verifies that he's alone before he dials. It's still early enough to make the call, even with the time difference.

Three rings later, he hears the man pick up. "'Allo!"

"Mr. Holt?"

"Speaking."

"This is Richard Castle calling. Do you remember me?"

"Yes, Mr. Castle, I certainly do."

"Mr. Holt, I have a business proposition for you."


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:**_ Wow! Mayhap I should go on hiatus more often; had an incredible response to the last chapter - over 1200 page views in one day, almost twice as many as I've ever had before. It looks like there are at least 200 people reading this little tale. Oddly enough, only one person out of that 200 saw fit to review - just sayin'._

**Disclaimer:** Not my world, just my words.

* * *

><p>Castle's loft is about a 20 minute walk from the 12th, and he talks most of the way home, laying out the plan for William Holt. Holt seems intrigued, but a little reluctant, at first.<p>

"This is not the sort of job I usually take."

"No, I don't suppose it is."

"Also, I always negotiate through a third party."

"First time for everything. This phone isn't traceable to me. I can always hang up, reconnect through some other channel."

"No need. As you said: first time for everything."

He pushes the front doors open. "Right, hold on just a moment..."

He passes by Eduardo in the lobby, waving as he goes. When he reaches the elevator, he continues.

"So, are you interested? There's no payday other than the money we negotiate; you absolutely cannot take anything from either home. It never happened; you were never there."

"If the price is right, doesn't matter. If anything, makes it all a bit easier. Nothing to fence, nothing to hide after the fact."

Castle pauses, uncertain how to proceed. Well, he's not the expert here, is he? "So, what next?"

"A job like this is all about research. Information is key. I will have to spend at least a few weeks researching the homes and their security before anything else."

He steps out of the elevator, switching the phone to his left hand while fishing with his right hand for his keys.

"We haven't discussed your fee."

Holt chuckles. "If you have to ask..."

"I can't afford it?"

He unlocks the door, steps inside and heads immediately for the office.

"Oh, I know very well you can afford it." Holt pauses, then goes on, "I haven't actually said that I'll do the job. I'll do the research and work up a plan. That much, I'm willing to do Meryl Streep. Once we have the lay of the land, we can discuss payment for the real work."

_Meryl Streep? _He drops into his desk chair, sighs quietly with relief to be off his feet. "Ummm... so what does that mean, exactly?"

"A hundred thousand, US."

"Get me an account and routing number and I can have it to you in three days. The payment won't come from me directly."

"Got a Biro?"

Castle grins and grabs a pen, pulls a notepad across the desk. "Go."

Holt quickly reels off a 9-digit routing number, then a longer account number. Castle writes them both down, then reads them back for confirmation.

"I don't mean to push, but should you choose to do the job, what would you expect? I just need a ballpark number."

"Why so eager? Fella like you, with your deep pockets, should be able to just write a check."

"I need to take steps to put the money together inconspicuously. I have reason to believe someone might be monitoring my financials, and I don't want to... arouse suspicion."

"Ahhh. That makes a bit more sense. Very well, unless some particular issues come up, you can assume it won't be more than half a million US."

"OK, I can put that together in a few weeks. Mr. Holt, I think we have a deal."

"Mr. Castle, I think I agree. How do I get in touch when I'm ready?"

"Can you send encrypted email?"

Holt scoffs. "Of course." He gives an innocuous-sounding hotmail address, then continues, "Mail me your public key; I'll reply with mine."

"I'll do it tonight."

* * *

><p>Castle's next call is to his accountant. Charles makes enough managing Castle's millions that Castle is 100% comfortable calling him at 8:00 on a week night. He deliberately makes the call on his desk line.<p>

The one that he knows has been tapped since early last summer.

"Richard Castle - wasn't expecting to hear from you until the next quarterly royalty checks came in."

"Hey Charles, this isn't about the royalties."

"Want to make some changes to the trust?"

"No, we can leave that alone." He pauses, then continues, "Actually, I'm curious: has Evelyn even made any withdrawals?"

"Not the last time I checked."

Roy's wife is the only one who knows about the Nikki Heat trust. He informed her after the funeral, when Roy's share went to her. He'd been concerned that she might have expenses she needed help with. As it turned out, she hadn't needed anything; between her own job, Roy's life insurance and pension, and money from the Widows and Orphans Fund, she and the kids were just fine, financially.

Her share of the trust is just shy of a million bucks, now. He'd extracted a promise from her not to tell any of the others, and so far she has kept it.

He just likes the fact that it's his secret; he never tires of watching Kevin and Javi and Lanie across the table at the Haunt, griping about their pay, not knowing that they're all soon to be millionaires.

Beckett, of course, passed the 7-figure mark long ago, about the time he signed the contracts for the Heat Wave film rights.

"Well, she knows what she's doing." Now for the real point of the call. "So, year end is coming up and I'm thinking about taxes. I'm looking at doing some more charity donations. I'd like to put some more into the Widows and Orphans Fund. There are a few other groups I'm considering."

"Widows and Orphans again? They're already getting 10% of the Nikki Heat money; you want to add something on top of that?"

"Hey, maybe I just want another bottle of St Miriam's."

"Cheaper to just bid on it at auction."

"It's always about the money with you, isn't it?"

"That's why you hired me, isn't it?"

"OK, you win. So, I'll need to start drawing funds for this over the next few weeks. Wanted you to know about it ahead of time."

"Not a problem. Do you need my help with any of it?"

"Yes, I need to verify the tax exemption status of a few of these groups before I write the checks, and I..."

"Yes?"

"Sorry, Charles, something's just come up; I have to go. I'll get you again tomorrow and we can go over this. Give my best to Lorna."

"Sure will."

He hangs up, and immediately pulls out his burner phone, calls Charles back on his cell. He picks up on the 2nd ring.

"Rick, this cloak and dagger thing is really starting to make me nervous."

"Imagine how I feel. It's my phone they've got bugged."

"Talk about living in the public eye. I've never envied you less. OK, so what was the _real_point of that call?"

"I need to put together half a million dollars without them knowing about it. I thought we might somehow skim it out of funds that are supposedly going to charity."

"Hmmm. Possible, but there are probably other and better ways to do it. How much time do we have to do the job?"

"More than a week, probably less than a month. What other ways do you have in mind?"

"I have some other clients that are setting up a few venture capital funds. You could go in on those funds as a co-investor and then we could siphon the money out in various ways."

"Sounds like we would have to rely on their... ummm... discretion?"

"These are folks I've worked with for many years; believe me when I say that they can be trusted to keep their mouths shut. Especially if we sweeten the deal a little for them."

"How would we do that?"

"If, say, we agreed to rebook 10% of whatever you draw out into their shares of the LLC."

"I'm fine with that. How would I actually get the money out in liquid form?"

"The funds that you draw can be disguised as going to dummy startups. Those startups will all fail, of course, and with a scary-high burn rate, wink-wink. But if you make good on the other investors' shares of the so-called losses, they'll be happy to go along with it."

"No legal issues?"

"Why would there be? It's your money, after all. You're not trying to avoid taxes in any way. All of the other investors would have to agree to everything ahead of time. Nobody's getting defrauded of anything. It's just a sort of unusual gentleman's contract."

"Why did I bother trying to come up with my own scheme?"

"Because, Rick, that's who you are. I'd have been disappointed if you hadn't."

"You know me so well. OK, let's make it happen. When can you have the paperwork ready?"

"Should only take a few days."

"Great, I'll stop by the office on Friday."

"Not a problem."

"Thanks, Charles. I really appreciate it."

"Just tell me one thing, Rick."

"What?"

"Are you really getting anywhere with this?"

"Yes, Charles. I really am."

"Good. That's good. I hope you nail this son of a bitch. Nail him right to the wall."

* * *

><p>The laptop beeps around 11:30 with an email reply from Pierce. He decrypts it, finds that it's a note to call him, but at a number he's not familiar with. He decides to switch burner cells before calling.<p>

A woman answers the phone. "Hello?"

"Hi, I'm a friend of Pierce Martin, he asked me to call him at this number."

"Oh, he said something about this at dinner. He's out back, let me go get him."

Castle hears echoing footsteps, then what sounds like wind. She must have stepped outside. "Here you go."

"Pierce here."

"Pierce, it's me. Why the new number?"

"No big deal, I just screwed up. I'm visiting friends in Carmel and forgot my cell. This is their home phone."

"OK, I won't take up too much of your time. I wanted to let you know that I'm going to need that equipment we discussed sooner, not later."

"How soon? Some of the stuff I have on hand, but it will take a little while to have the other equipment built and tested."

"I probably won't need it for at least two weeks."

"Oh. OK, that's plenty of time. She can have it ready in about a week, maybe ten days. I'll call her when I get home tomorrow."

"Great. Do you need any more money?"

"No, still got more than enough on hand to cover it."

"OK, thanks again. We'll talk tomorrow. Enjoy the rest of your trip."

* * *

><p>The phone rings at 8:17, startling him out of a bizarre dream. He scrabbles about on the bedside table before snagging it on the 3rd ring. Rubbing sleep out of his eyes with his left hand, he thumbs the answer button with his right. "Castle."<p>

"It's me. We've got a body at an SRO. Don't know much more than that, yet. I'll text you the address in a minute. You in?"

"Well, I don't know. Just how seedy is this place?"

"Rooms by the hour, Castle, rooms by the hour."

"I'm in. Give me ten minutes to get a shower and I'll be on my way." He's on his way to the shower as he speaks, shedding his t-shirt as he goes.

The cab drops him off in front of the SRO at 8:45 on the dot. He finds Beckett in the lobby, talking to a uniform he doesn't recognize. She nods at him, goes back to taking notes as he approaches.

He takes up his his usual position just behind her right shoulder, unconsciously, and waits for her to finish.

A moment later, she flips her notebook closed. She half-turns toward him, taps him on the lapel, points at the stairway to their left.

"2nd floor, room 217."

He's taking it all in, the threadbare carpet on the stairs, the fading wallpaper. This is gonna be a great case, he can feel it already.

They thread their way up the stairs, meet up with another officer in the hallway.

"You know what I love about working with you? You always take me to the most charming places."

She smiles. "Well, I'm a simple girl, Castle. I go where the bodies are..."


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** _Yeah, so... hmm. Bet a lot of folks thought this story was abandoned. Sorry, but real life just keeps showing up. Good news, though: I've got a lot of bits and pieces for the next three chapters, so you probably won't have to wait near as long for those. But I've given up on making promises. Hope you enjoy it, regardless. Many, many thanks to any of you who have stuck around!_

**Disclaimer:** Not my world, just my words.

* * *

><p>Tyger! Tyger! burning bright<br>In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye  
>Could frame thy fearful symmetry?<p>

- William Blake - "The Tyger"

* * *

><p>Castle is finding it difficult to follow the details of the crime scene. The subtext between Javi and Lanie is so loud he can barely hear what they're saying.<p>

What is _up_ with these two? They broke up a month ago and they're still bickering like this?

He'd bet big money there are still booty calls going on - a lot of them. Nobody who'd made a clean break would act like that.

He sneaks a glance at Beckett, catches her giving Lanie a weird look. Wonders if she's thinking the same thing.

_Focus, Castle. Focus._ Victim was (possibly) drugged and suffocated, then his fingerprints burned off - burned off?

Well, the murder's a little weird, at least. But whatever's going on with Lanie and Javi seems like it might be even weirder...

* * *

><p>OK, so the direct approach isn't going to work. Lanie's not really in a sharing mood when it comes to the situation with Espo. And Beckett's no help <em>at all<em>.

Of _course_ it's none of his business. That's what makes it so damned intriguing - how can they not _get_ that?

On top of all that, Beckett shoots the CIA idea down before he can even get it out of his mouth.

Maybe she knows him a little too well at this point. But sooner or later he's going to be _right_ about that. If he just sticks around long enough.

He chews the inside of his cheek and ruminates on the problem while he flips the piece of paper with the address over and over in his hands. The handwriting is a little spiky but otherwise nondescript. The flip side is blank except for...

Wait a minute. OK, the code looks like it might be truncated, but they might still be able to get an address from it.

"Beckett?"

"What?"

"This is a postal bar code. Our victim wrote this on the back of an envelope."

Her brows furrow, and the vertical lines appear between them. God, he _loves_ that look. "A postal bar code?"

Wow. It's been a long time since he spotted something she doesn't even _know_ about.

"Yeah, those little hash marks you see on mailing labels and envelopes..."

* * *

><p>He watches as she makes the call to the local post office, trying not to look too smug. He loves making a break in a case.<p>

"This is Detective Kate Beckett with the NYPD. We have some evidence in a current investigation you may be able to help us with. Can I speak with your supervisor?"

She glances at him as she waits, and there must be a little too much smug still on his face, because she rolls her eyes and smiles a tight little smile.

"Yes, I have a slip of paper here with a postal bar code on it. If I fax it over, can you decode it and give us the address?" She rolls her eyes again, this time _not_ at him. "Yes, it's evidence in a murder investigation, so I do need it done quickly."

She pauses again, then reaches for the note pad on her desk, grabs a pen to jot down the fax number.

She hops off her seat and strides off for the mail room. Castle takes the opportunity to grab her coffee cup and head for the break room.

By the time he's done making their coffees, she's back at her desk, the phone back at her ear.

"Yes, yes, I'll wait." She looks up as he approaches, sees the mugs in his hands. Her smile is that soft, beautiful thing he's been seeing so much of recently. His heart speeds up at the sight, and he's vaguely surprised that his hand doesn't tremble as he holds out her coffee.

He's been trying not to read too much into those smiles, not to let his heart run away with it. It's hard, though, when her fingers brush his as she takes the coffee, and her eyes linger on his a beat (or two) longer than necessary.

He takes his seat next to her desk, wincing a bit as he sits down. Her eyes must have still been on him, because there's a touch of concern there when he looks back up.

"You OK, Castle? Looked like you were in some pain, there."

"Ummm..." Her eyebrows furrow again. "Just a little sore, that's all."

"Sore?"

"Getting back into the gym a little more, recently." Which is an understatement, but he doesn't want her prying into it.

Thankfully, she doesn't, just smiles again. "Yes, I've noticed," she says, and she has.

He _has_ trimmed down a little, but mostly he just looks more... solid. Thicker through the chest and shoulders. She'd swear his legs are bigger, too, especially the thighs. And his arms... well, those have _always_ been... yeah. She bites her lower lip, then catches him looking at her, forces herself to stop. Best not to dwell too much on that thought just now. "Remember to warm up before and stretch after, Castle. Take a magnesium supplement - always helps me with soreness. Potassium, too. Banana smoothies."

"I'll remember that." He's already doing all of that. A lot. The intense, early morning workouts have been leaving him sore, but it's the late night sessions that are the worst, and those aren't weight training.

He hasn't had a lot of visible bruises to explain, so far, as he has been religious about wearing the headgear to keep the bruises off his face. Alexis spotted some bruises on his left forearm a week or two ago, but she seemed to accept his explanation about getting it closed in a car door. Thankfully the weather's more than cold enough to justify long sleeves.

The Brazilian Jiu Jitsu is bad enough, but the Krav Maga is just... brutal. The trainers he's hired are two of the best, and they're both aware of his desire to keep the training under wraps, so initially, both tried to moderate the intensity. He told them in no uncertain terms that he wasn't having any of that.

He isn't about to be unprepared because he was too easy on himself in training. So, he curses himself constantly these days for letting go of his old training regimen for so long - and he's stocked up on naproxen and arnica balm and is just... suffering through it.

"Why have you taken it back up, Castle?"

"Got tired of feeling so old when we had to chase down a suspect, I guess."

She seems about to say something more, probably something snarky, but is interrupted by the phone. "Yes, I'm still here."

He leans back a bit and tries not to stare too much at her, listening instead as he sips his own coffee.

"You have an address for me? Right." She scribbles quickly on her note pad. "Got it. Thank you for your help."

She hangs up, tears the note off the pad. "So, Castle: up for a trip to Queens?"

* * *

><p>Mmm. Warm. Warmth under her palm, gentle motion, breathing. She rolls to her side, closer to the warmth, and feels the smile that grows upon her face unbidden. Her eyes drift open and the first sight that greets them is Castle's profile. He looks so peaceful, peaceful and pleased, and her smile widens.<p>

_Finally._

Wait. Wait a minute. Finally... what? Just what happened, last night?

Awareness returns in a rush; she jerks up, looks around, realizes that this is neither his bedroom nor hers. _What the hell?_ The mattress beneath them is bare, as are the cinder block walls around them.

Her motions rouse him enough to speak, but no more than a sleepy mumble of "Don't get up yet, stay in bed."

Oh, they are in _serious_ trouble.

* * *

><p><em>Step on her toes?!<em> Obstinate, infuriating woman! "Since when do I...?" _Grr..._ "OK, you know what? Tell me this: why do you always have to be first?" _Yeah, what about that?_ "First out of the elevator; first through the door..."

She looks at him like he's a dense child. "Um, I am a cop. I'm the one with the gun. Being first through the door is my _job_."

_Oh, no, no, no. Not getting away with **that** one, Beckett._ "In the elevator?" And now that he's thinking about it, there's something else. "Look, how about this? Would it _kill_ you to let someone _open_ the door for you once in a while?" That's just been offending his gentleman's sensibilities for, well, _ever_.

There _is_ something to that; if she's honest with herself, she has to admit that some of those habits developed on the job might not fly so well in... non-tactical situations. But she is _so_ not willing to give him the satisfaction of scoring that point. "You do realize that if somebody _opens_ the door for me, then I _will_ be going through it first anyway, right?"

_Oh, so it's gonna be snark, snark, snark, eh? Well, TWO can play at that game, Beckett_. "Oh yeah, that's right, I forgot. You have to be the _smartest_, too. Everything's a competition with you."

"That is _so_ not true." _Of course it's true - maybe you should just shut up now, Beckett. And how the hell did he get us onto this topic, anyway? Deflect, deflect, girl..._ "Are you always like this in the mornings?"

_This is kind of getting out of hand. And we've got bigger problems. Maybe we should shut this down?_ But no, he's _not_ going to let her get in that last shot unanswered. "You know, I'd argue with you but then I'd have to let you win."

_OK, I'm just... not doing this anymore. Male ego. Whatever._ "OK, fine. Go ahead. You lead."

He pauses, off balance, dander up and suddenly without opposition. Like leaning against a piece of furniture you thought was stationary and having it slip away from you. "Thank you." _Hmm, didn't think this through. Ummm... crap._ "Where... did you want to go?" _Shit_.

She smiles, but it's only a little triumphant. There's a lot more grudging fondness in it than vindication. "I think that there is a light switch over there. Or do you want to stay in the dark?"

But the details revealed by the light are almost more dismaying than the details his writer's imagination had been overlaying on the darkness.

Then they see the freezer, and his imagination goes right back into overdrive.

* * *

><p>Esposito is looking at her desk now, just as Ryan has been off and on for the past hour.<p>

"Still not back, eh?" Ryan hopes his concern isn't too obvious.

"No. It's been hours." OK, so maybe it doesn't matter. Espo sounds even more worried than Ryan feels. "Every time I call it goes straight to voice mail."

"You think they're really running down a lead?" Ryan knows that it's the only thing that makes sense, but it doesn't _really_ make sense, given that...

"What lead?" Espo scoffs. "There was nothing new on the board when we came back."

Yeah, that.

There's nothing new on the board, no notes next to her phone, nothing. This is not good. Nothing good ever comes of Beckett and Castle going incommunicado in the middle of a case.

Javi interrupts his train of thought. "You think you can hit up dispatch? See if they'll run a trace on the transponder on Beckett's unit. I want to know where they are."

Ryan grabs his phone, dials. "This is Detective Kevin Ryan, badge number 42344. I need you to run a GPS trace on a vehicle transponder." He pauses, tapping nervously on the pad of paper next to his phone. "Vehicle is issued to Detective Kate Beckett, badge number 41319, call sign One-Lincoln-Forty."

Javi grabs his cup, heads for the break room; he'll distract himself with the coffee-making process. It's a zen thing. But before the coffee stops dribbling into the cup, Ryan joins him.

"We got a location on the transponder. Next to a 278 freeway overpass in Brooklyn, near Prospect Park. Doesn't make sense; it's nowhere near anything related to the case. And here's the _really_ bad news: they ran history and it's been sitting there for about four hours."

"Sounds like it's been dumped. Or maybe engine trouble? No, they'd've called."

"Yeah, they'd've called."

"OK, let's get moving."

* * *

><p>Gates looks at Ryan like she's about to eviscerate him if he doesn't let go. Then he turns the paper over and shows her the bar code. Espo would almost call that expression a smile - if he thought Gates' facial muscles could form a smile.<p>

Break. Break in the case. Thank God!

A quick call to the nearest post office confirms more things than one: first, the address for the recipient of that envelope, and second, the fact that Beckett had already called requesting a translation of the code about seven hours ago. In a rare stroke of luck, the same supervisor was still on duty, and Beckett clearly made an impression.

Then it's a call to ESU to coordinate a raid on the house.

Which doesn't turn up Beckett or Castle, but _does_ turn up some... interesting weirdness.

A newly-installed hatch down into the basement? Why the hell would anyone _do_ that? Were they keeping hostages? Cuffs or manacles would be a lot less trouble than installing a hatch.

They return to the precinct with a lot more questions than answers.

The house was a foreclosure from about six months ago, but new tenants showed up only a few weeks prior. _Shy_ new tenants, possibly a pair of brothers who drove a Black Ford F-150 and received deliveries in the dead of night. Deliveries that arrived by semi truck. Deliveries that could have been made by Spooner.

Interesting. Frustratingly interesting. Were they storing drugs in the house, using it as a temporary base of operations? Still doesn't explain the hatch in the floor.

The basement door and stairs were in perfectly good shape, and wide enough to transport bigger objects to the basement than would have fit through the hatch.

Whatever they were up to, it wasn't anything good, or legal. Innocent people don't wipe away their prints when they leave a place.

It's almost fourteen hours straight now, and everyone is starting to feel it. Ryan is doing that thing where he pinches the bridge of his nose. Espo just feels fried.

Not so fried that he misses a crucial detail, though. _National Bank?_ There was _another_ house, something from... He scrabbles for the files from Martinez.

"Spooner made a delivery to a Brooklyn house two months ago." He feels like smiling, but doesn't. "A couple of days later the Feds raided the place, but by then whoever was in the house was gone. All they found was a hatch cut into the floor that accessed the basement."

"Sounds familiar."

"Yeah." He feels a budding sense of triumph. "And when they traced the property it was bank owned. By _National Bank_."

_They've hacked the National Bank systems and they're using that to identify places to..._ "Our guys must be targeting distressed properties to run their operations from."

_Now_ they've got something to work with.

Within 30 minutes, they have a list of potential properties. Within another 20, they've narrowed the list down to less than a dozen "likelies."

They take 3 minutes to give Gates the rundown, and another 5 to assign unies to roll out, working down the list.

Ryan and Espo take the only industrial property, a warehouse down on Fincher.

* * *

><p>A <em>tiger<em>!? What the _hell_?

She's a trained police officer, never short on guts, but _this_? There's no reasoning with a tiger, no training to fall back on, not even a sidearm to even the odds (a little). People hunt tigers with _rifles_, not Glocks, and she doesn't even have _that_.

The fear is almost paralyzing. Her mind races, trying to come up with a plan, but this is a deep, primal terror that she doesn't know how to control.

This is the terror of the primitive, the terror of the prey, a caveman with nothing but a fire to keep the predators at bay in the night.

The knife in her hand seems almost worthless, a joke. She'll be lucky to bloody the thing before it rips her open.

The damned freezer won't _move_, too much gravel and debris from the rapidly disintegrating wall scattered on the floor, increasing the friction tenfold over the smooth, clean floor they pushed it across a few hours ago. No time to clear a path quickly enough to make a difference; the beast is going to be through that wall in just a few more moments. And then...

Castle speaks up, desperation clear in his voice. "We get in the freezer."

She shakes her head. "It'll latch and we'll suffocate." But that might almost be better than...

"Would you rather be _eaten_?"

Maybe they can cut away part of the sealing gasket, enough to let in air so they won't... but no, no time. The tiger is going to be through in a matter of seconds, not minutes.

Then she feels it, the change in Castle. It's like he relaxes, just a little, and she recognizes it instinctively for what it is. She sees his knuckles go white as he grips the knife in his right hand, and her heart stutters in her chest before he even speaks.

"Get behind me."

And she does.

Still, she's not too far gone in her fear to feel that surge of bewildered wonder at this glimpse of the _real_ Castle, the one under all the layers of pretense: arrogant playboy, overgrown child, everything.

It's devastating to realize in this instant that _this_ is how he does it; in the end, with all the humor and deflection stripped away, this is how Richard Castle loves. He does it fiercely, does it with his whole heart, nothing held back.

In that moment, the despair is almost crippling. How far she has to go, to earn this. Even if they survive, she'll never measure up. Never.

* * *

><p>Castle feels a strange peace settle over him, now that he's made his decision. He'll get the tiger to go for him first. If he can lure it to latch onto his left arm or one of his legs, he might be able to get in a few quick stabs with the blade.<p>

If he can get it in the throat, and then maybe take an eye, it might drive the thing off long enough to bleed out before it can hurt Kate.

He probably won't live to see it, though. All it will take is one swipe of those claws, and his guts will be a steaming pile on the floor. Which the beast will probably do just out of spite, even if he _does_ injure it.

He looks down at the knife again, hopes it's big enough to do mortal damage. Then he looks again at the freezer, and with the clarity of thought that comes with resigning himself to death, it hits him.

"I have a plan."

He quickly drags her around to the end of the freezer, sets the heels of his hands under the edge of the lid near the hinges, and heaves with all his strength, thankful for every tortured moment in the gym in the past 4 months. The bottom of the freezer lifts a few inches off the floor, enough for both of them to wedge their shoes underneath.

Becket quickly pivots, sets her back against the freezer and her fingers under the edge. She lifts with all the strength in her legs and manages to raise it another 10 or 12 inches. She keeps it from dropping back as Castle shifts his grip to the bottom edge, thankfully finding purchase underneath.

With their combined strength, they manage to tip it up and vertical; Castle wastes no time tucking his knife into the back of his belt, then he's hauling Beckett against him, gripping her low on her thighs and boosting her up.

She gets a foot onto his shoulder and swings her legs up and over, lying flat on the top surface for a second before rising to her hands and knees and pulling Castle up after her.

Then he's up, and the tiger is through the wall, circling them on the floor below.

It's only a reprieve.

"This is your plan? Do you know how high tigers can jump?"

* * *

><p><em>Nothing<em> has ever looked so good in all her life as Ryan and Espo peering down through that hatch, lifting chain in hand. She could kiss them both.

Right before she kicks both their asses for leaving her and Castle hanging, of course.

The fact that all three of the perps are now in custody goes a long way toward taking the edge off it all, though.

She can even weather Gates' annoyed glare as she explains her new policy.

She's never going to hear the end of that, of course. Cops, detectives especially, hate giving up any autonomy, and word of _why_ they now have to call in their every move is going to spread like wildfire through the precinct.

But at least they're both still alive.

* * *

><p>OK, so Beckett loves to tease him. Of course she does, she's been doing it for years now, ever since she whispered in his ear after their first case, whispered and strode off without a backward glance; still, something about today seems different.<p>

It's not just that the residual adrenaline is still fizzing through his veins, making him feel twitchy and edgy. The look she gives him as she says it, "next time, let's do it without the tiger," and then the deadpan glance over her shoulder (he gets a backward glance _this_ time, oh yes), leave him wondering just how much is tease and how much is challenge.

He takes the stairs, stretching his legs, and enjoys the burst of cheerfully lecherous optimism that is like nothing he's felt in almost a year.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:** _Told you it wouldn't be as long a wait this time. I'm amazed that so many people were still waiting for more of this story; almost 250 people read that last chapter. Thank you so much for the latest reviews; I plan to take a little time this weekend to reply to all those reviewers that I haven't yet._

_Also, a special thank you to "Guest" since I can't PM him/her directly. In answer to your review, I've had in mind a very specific point in the season where I intend to break from canon. Until that time, my intent for this fic has been to try to do it as a sort of "story behind the story." The idea was to expand the back-story for Season 4 to include an ongoing, clandestine search by Castle for his "sleestak" where he was pulling out all the stops and using all his resources to find the guy, all without anyone else knowing about it. It was particularly difficult to do this with "Cuffed" because Castle spent the entire episode locked in a basement with Beckett; I couldn't really go into what he had going on behind the scenes because, hey: Beckett's right there._

_Future chapters are going to be much more focused on the things Castle has going on the side, with much briefer references to the episodes, just enough to let the reader know where we are in the original timeline, or for me to do some of my speculating on what was going on in this or that character's head while we were watching him/her on screen._

_Things are also going to accelerate somewhat as we move toward the climax of the season._

**Disclaimer:** Not my world, just my words.

* * *

><p>This whole situation is making him really, really nervous. This is serious stuff; they're not talking about hacking a database or cracking a record system, now. This is a major criminal undertaking, a federal felony.<p>

The last of the equipment arrived from Sandra earlier that day, and he's spent the last six hours carefully disassembling and inspecting it, cleaning everything inside and out with a solvent that completely removes fingerprints but won't damage any of the components.

Sandra is diligent and detail-oriented, and he can see where she specifically filed off or otherwise erased part numbers and serial numbers on some of the components. There are no identifying markings on anything more complex than a capacitor. He never doubted Sandra's competence, but still...

He's nervous. So he did the check anyway.

It's about 10:00 when he finishes putting the equipment back together and verifying that its functionality has not been impaired.

Then he sits, just staring at the components nested in excelsior and open-cell foam, for almost half an hour. _Rick, I hope you know what you're doing. This is serious shit_.

Should he try to talk Rick out of this? Try to put on the brakes?

He's known Rick Castle for almost 25 years, now. He trusts Rick's instincts, trusts the guy's heart. Rick is a genuinely good person; he wouldn't be doing this unless he was desperate. Desperate, or really, really pissed off.

But both desperation and blind anger can get you into serious, serious trouble.

He pulls up the email app, opens a note addressed to Rick's anonymous email drop. He'll ship the equipment, but adds a note to call him on top of the packing material. They are going to have a serious talk when the stuff arrives.

* * *

><p>The two emails arrive almost simultaneously, just as he is considering knocking off and heading for bed. His head is muzzy with the long day and the latest batch of fruitless leads he's been trying to run down on Senator Gossard.<p>

He doesn't like Daniel Gossard or Marcus de Boer, just on general principles. No public figure's past should be so sketchy, dammit. It's like both men had made a concerted effort to erase as much of their past as they could before going into politics. Which is probably SOP for a politician in the US, but that idea didn't help him sleep better at night. He makes a conscious effort to stop gritting his teeth, and switches to his email application.

The first email is from Pierce, a short, no-nonsense notification that the equipment is ready and he will be shipping it the next day to their usual drop.

The second is from William Holt.

_Talk about a sign_.

Holt's message is short as well, and immediately sets Castle's brain buzzing again.

"Work progresses. Should discuss. Call ASAP."

He knows now that he's not going to be getting to sleep any time soon. He checks the clock, does the mental math. It's a bit before 8:00 am in the UK, a reasonably civilized hour to call, and Holt is obviously awake if he just sent an email.

His eyes dart quickly about the office, rest on the filing cabinet where he keeps the burner phones. Tomorrow's - well, today's, now - phone is in the charger. He hops up, grabs it from the cradle. The charge is already at 100%.

He scoops up his wallet from the desk, pockets it, then ducks into the bedroom and quickly dons a pair of comfortable loafers. His coat is in the front closet, and he's out the door. He sweeps the apartment for listening devices almost daily, using some equipment liberated from the 12th as well as some higher-end devices that Pierce acquired for him. But for a call as sensitive as this, he's too paranoid to trust even that.

It's a Thursday night - well, Friday morning - and Brinkley's will still be open; he can grab some comfort food and have his conversation at a quiet side table. He passes through the lobby and waves at Michael, steps out into the chill January air, and turns east on Broome.

* * *

><p>The food at Brinkley's is always good, and at just before 2:00 am on a Friday, it's less than half-full. He's lucked out, arriving just before the kitchen closes down for the night, so he orders a plate of three-cheese macaroni and a glass of water with lemon, retires to a table near the back. The food arrives quickly; he thanks the waiter, takes a few bites, then pulls out his phone.<p>

"Good morning, Mr. Holt; I got your email."

"Greetings to you as well; didn't expect to hear until later today. Up this late as a rule?"

"I was working anyway. Writer's hours."

"I can hear bustle in the background; sounds like a pub. You're not at home?"

"It is the city that never sleeps."

"All well and good then."

"OK, what do you have to tell me?"

"Well, for gents suspected of being criminal masterminds, both of them are sloppy as hell when it comes to their own security."

"I'm... not sure how to feel about that."

"Well, could mean they're innocent, waifs in the woods, as it were. Or, could just mean they're arrogant."

"They're politicians. I know which way I'm going to bet."

"Wise man. So, long story short, I've done about all the research I can from here. I'll need to hop across the pond and have a look now."

"Do you need anything from me?"

"What, you mean payment? No, all part of our up-front deal. Baked some travel into the cost."

"It seems to be going quickly. I didn't expect to hear anything from you for another week or two."

"It's all been smooth so far. Haven't decided if I'll be doing the job yet, but the signs are favorable."

"When will you get to the US? How long do you expect it to take?"

"Booked the flight last night. Arriving in a few days. It'll likely take a week to 10 days."

"I should have the equipment delivered in a few days. Should we arrange a meeting so I can give it to you? I mean, if you're going to be passing through New York - or are you flying directly to DC?"

"I'll be flying into Dulles. If I choose to do the job, I'll contact you before I depart. We can arrange for you to get me the package then."

"OK, then, I can let you get on with your day. Take care..."

Before he can disconnect, Holt's voice stops him with an abrupt, "Wait a mo!"

"Yes?"

"Well, it's like this: normally I wouldn't pry into the client's reasons, but this time..."

Castle smiles wryly before replying, "Seems to me that most times you probably understand your client's reasons without asking."

"You're right, it's not usually a mystery. Avarice, acquisitiveness: they often go hand-in-hand with great wealth." Holt almost clucks disapprovingly. "People who can afford my services are normally used to getting what they want, by one means or another."

"But I'm not interested in getting any _thing_," Castle pauses, wondering why it matters at all to him what Holt thinks. "I think you understand that, don't you?"

"Yes, I do. All the more reason why curiosity is really needling at me." He huffs a bit, enough that his annoyance at himself comes through. "I mean, you're a best-selling author. Got a great life, a kid, or so I've read. What the hell are you up to? Why are you planning to bug the homes of a US Senator and Congressman?"

"That is a long story, and it's very late."

"I suppose a professional thief is not the sort to spill your secrets to."

"Ah, Mr. Holt. You might be surprised at the things I've told to professional thieves. Let's save that story for when we meet."

"Trying to influence my decision, are we? Dangling a carrot?"

"You bet."

Holt chuckles. "Good night, sir. I'll be in touch."

* * *

><p>He never <em>asked<em>. Why didn't he ask?

It's been a long, boring day of nothing but paperwork (which, for a change, Castle has actually been helping with), and she hates that she's spent half of it... fretting. She doesn't fret. Except when she does. And she's been doing it a lot, for the last week or two.

It really started almost six weeks ago when the elegant ivory linen envelope arrived in the mail, and she realized he must have received one, too. He never mentioned it, not even in passing. So naturally she couldn't mention it either; but within 3 days of the arrival, she started to wonder. She wondered when she felt him looking at her in the quiet early-morning hours at the station, right after he presented her coffee and she gave him her best smile.

She wondered when he helped her on with her coat in the evening before they left for the day.

She wondered when they shared a late-night burger and shake at Remy's after closing a case.

Almost five weeks passed, and he never asked. She was so sure he would ask. Why didn't he _ask_?

And it's not like she hasn't been prodding him. She's been teasing him like crazy. Giving him opportunities and hints. C'mon, Castle: "next time, without the tiger?" What did he need, an engraved invitation?

Oh, yeah. He already had one of those. What the hell, Castle?

She put it off as long as she could, finally gave in the day before yesterday and RSVP'd. Thank God she doesn't have to buy another bridesmaid's dress; at least there's that. She was able to pick out something that looked good on her, really good, and she absolutely was _not_ thinking about how much Castle would like it when she inspected herself in the dressing room mirror.

But still, she frets.

They're all sitting around in the break room, just about ready to close up shop for the day. Castle's making a final espresso for himself (hers is sitting ready at her left hand, the aroma soothing as she leafs through a magazine without really seeing it) and like a cruel taunt from the universe, Jenny comes traipsing in for a visit.

She hates going to weddings alone.

* * *

><p>"Again!"<p>

Castle shakes out his left arm, massaging the shoulder briefly with his right hand. The sweat is threatening to drip into his right eye again, and he quickly sweeps his right sleeve across it, before taking up his position again.

Steven stomps his lead foot before attacking; Castle stopped falling for the distraction technique after about 3 lessons, but the instructor still does it occasionally to reassure himself that his student hasn't fallen back into bad habits.

The blows come fast and furious, but clip Castle only twice this time as he manages to force more speed into his now-leaden arms. As a low hook comes in toward the bottom ribs on his left side, he manages to trap instead of just blocking. Trained reflexes carry him through the twist and hip throw; he lands more-or-less on top of his sparring partner, and then it's a blur of eely twists and reverses and counter-reverses before he has Steven in a picture-perfect arm bar, his left leg across the man's throat and the right arm just short of hyper-extension.

Steven makes a half-hearted attempt at dislodging Castle's leg but knows it's futile. Castle's legs are _strong_ and they don't seem to tire as quickly as his arms. Never seem to tire at all, in fact. He grimaces and makes an exasperated half-raspberry noise before tapping out.

Castle lets go immediately and rolls away, coming back up in a ready crouch. Steven just lies there a moment before grinning up at him and kipping back up to his feet.

"Nicely done, Rick." He grunts as he flexes his right arm a bit. "Let's practice some wrist locks; we haven't done that for a few sessions."

Rick blows out a loud exhale and straightens up from his crouch. "Sure, Steve. Just give me a sec to get my wind back."

"Yeah, like I'm buyin' that. You haven't been getting winded in class for weeks." He smiles at Castle again, an expression that he's been finding himself making at the guy more and more frequently in the past month or so. "Whatever you're doing for your cardio training, keep doing it, because it's working."

"Thanks. Actually, I was thinking we might knock off early this evening."

"Places to go, people to see?"

"No, just some work to do before I can turn in for the night, and I don't want to be completely worn out."

"Sure. I reserve the right to go long for our next session, of course."

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't."

Silence descends for a few moments, aside from the rasp of their breathing, as both men discard their gloves.

"Rick?"

"Yeah, Steve?"

"I'd like to think we're getting to be friends."

Rick smiles before gripping at the stubborn velcro on his left glove with his teeth. His next reply is a little muffled. "Sure, Steve. Just getting started, but yeah."

"You mind if I ask you a personal question?"

"No, go ahead."

"You've been one of the most motivated students I've ever had, Rick. In fact, I wish I'd gotten you started in your teens. You could have been a serious competitor. You still could, you know."

"Ahh, forget it. At my age?"

"There are official age divisions. You'd be competing against guys near your age."

"Not for me, thanks. And that's not really the question you wanted to ask, is it?"

"If you're not interested in competitions, why the hell are you pushing yourself this hard?"

Steven blinks at the grim expression that appears on Castle's face, so unlike his normal good humor.

"I... wasn't prepared once. That won't happen again."

* * *

><p>"Pierce here."<p>

"It's me."

"I was expecting to hear from you yesterday, big guy. When did the package arrive?"

"Oh, it got here yesterday, but I didn't open it until this morning."

"You've been careful to wear gloves when handling the equipment, right?"

"Haven't even touched it yet. Found your note when I opened the box, figured I'd talk to you before I messed around with anything."

Pierce chuckles briefly. "Bet that must've been tough. You've got that whole... compulsive tactition thing going."

"So I like fiddling with things," Castle quips, "I can stop whenever I want."

"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that."

Castle huffs, a little more irritably than this level of teasing really deserves. "OK, OK, let's get to the point, Pierce; I have a wedding to get to."

"Sorry, I don't really want to have this discussion in a rush. Maybe we should wait until after?"

"I intend to be drunk and incoherent by the time I get home after, and I'm not in that much of a hurry, friend. Spill it."

"Rick, I'm... concerned about where this thing is going."

"Concerned?"

"Look, most of what we've done so far has been pretty, well, _safe_. We've covered our tracks well, and all we've really 'stolen' is information. But this..."

"Pierce, I get it. And I've put this off as long as I think I can."

"Eventually the bugs are going to be discovered, Rick. Then we're talking about a full-on federal investigation, including a bunch of very dedicated people with lots of resources trying to track us down."

"I _know_ that, Pierce. Don't you think I know that? I don't have any choice at this point."

"Why don't you..."

"I'm going to lose control of the situation, Pierce. You don't understand - she's only safe as long as she doesn't dig. Sooner or later she's going to start digging again, and I won't be able to _stop_ her! When she does, they're going to come for her. I have to know who he is before that happens."

"Who... what the hell, Rick? How do you know this?"

"I got a call from a guy, a friend of her old Captain, Roy Montgomery."

"The one from the funeral? When she was shot?"

"Yeah."

"But... OK. OK. What did this guy have to say? Why did he call you?"

"Roy sent him some evidence, stuff that could be used as leverage. To get them to back off. And he used it, he got them to call off their hitmen, but the truce only holds if she doesn't go after them."

"I don't get it. If he had evidence..." Pierce trails off, and Rick realizes that he's spilled too much. Pierce is too damned _smart_. "Oh, shit. Rick. He was in on it?"

"Sort of. Pierce, Christ, I shouldn't have told you this. Only a few people know any of this at all. We've kept it a secret, even at the cost of crippling our own investigations."

"Why, Rick? Why would you do that?"

"Because it was all the result of stupid mistakes, some things he did back when he was a rookie cop, things he thought were right at the time. The poor bastard spent almost two decades trying to atone for it. Roy Montgomery was a _good man_, Pierce. He sacrificed his own life, willingly, to protect both his family _and_ Beckett. Whatever mistakes he made, he's _more_ than paid for them. We won't let his reputation be trashed now."

"I... shit. Fine, fine. Your secret is safe with me. Just... be careful, Rick. I know I've said it before, but I'm saying it again."

"I will, Pierce. I'll never handle the equipment without gloves. It'll be locked in the safe until it's time to use it."

"How the hell are you going to get the stuff planted?"

"Don't worry, I..."

"...know a guy. Right. Is this the same guy who helped with the break-ins to get those old archive tapes?"

"No, different guy."

"You know a lot of guys, Rick."

"Yeah, and thank God for that."

"Right." Pierce pauses, and Rick can almost _see_ him wrestling with the urge to say something more.

"Pierce, if you really can't do this any more, just say so. You've done so much already, I can never really thank you."

"No, Rick. I'm in. In until the job is done. Because you're right: this son of a bitch has to be stopped. Just promise me that when we're done, we destroy everything we don't need. If one or both of them turn out not to be the guy, we nuke everything we got. Like it never happened."

"Pierce, that's what I planned all along."

"Good. OK, Rick. I'm good. Go to your wedding."

"_The_ wedding, Pierce. Not _my_ wedding."

"Afraid to jinx it?"

"You have no idea."


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N:** _And so this little tale continues. Thanks again to those faithful readers who are still about!_

**Disclaimer:** Not my world, just my words.

* * *

><p>"Dans les champs de l'observation le hasard ne favorise que les esprits prepares."<p>

"In matters of observation, chance favors only the prepared mind."

- Louis Pasteur

* * *

><p>He picks up the phone on the first ring, not even thinking about it, but regretting it before the phone reaches his ear. "Hello?"<p>

"Michael? It's Jason."

"Hello, Jason. Sorry, but, is it important? I'm on my way out."

"Important enough. You asked me to keep you in the loop on goings-on at City Hall. You definitely need to know about this."

Smith looks at his watch, does some quick mental math. "I've got about 10 minutes to spare. What's going on?"

"You might know that Weldon is looking at making a run for Governor."

"Yes, I do."

"Well, somebody is really unhappy about that. And whoever it is, they've got the knives out, big time. I think they're setting up a frame for him."

"What makes you think that?"

"Do you believe, even for a _second_, that _Robert Weldon_ would embezzle 2 million bucks from one of his own charities?"

"Damn."

"Yep." After a brief pause, Jason continues, "What do you want me to do?"

"Give me a moment, I need to think." Smith reaches into his desk drawer, brings out his burner phone, pockets it. "Find out anything you can without tipping your hand. Which charity was it?"

"That kids' library thing, ummm... Reading Train."

Smith snorts. "Really going for the outrage, aren't they?"

"Yeah, good thing he doesn't have one that gives candy to babies, right?"

He chuckles, sounding embarrassed as he does. What the hell, black humor was always his thing. "Find out what you can about it, but don't try to dig beyond the embezzlement. If they're this determined, they might go after him on multiple fronts. I have other sources, I'll see what else might be brewing."

"Got it."

"Just a minute, Jason. How did you get the information? Any chance it was fed to you deliberately?"

"I don't think so. Do you know Jenny Park?"

"Name doesn't ring a bell."

"She's pretty well known on the charity circuit, and she's one of the top officers over at Reading Train. Ms Park called my wife in this morning to discuss a legal matter..."

"What matter?"

"Getting to that. Apparently, there was some volunteer they caught copying files a few days ago; so, they kicked her out, and Park was concerned about what information she might've found and what sort of legal recourse they would have if she disclosed any of the information in the documents. It was a privileged discussion, and the missing funds came up." Smith hears Jason take a sip of something. "Melissa reached out to the AG's office immediately, and verified they have an investigation in motion."

"All right, that's enough. Thank you for the call, Jason. I'll speak to you again tomorrow." He drops the receiver back into its cradle.

Smith grabs his bluetooth earpiece out of the top desk drawer, fits it in place and then takes out his normal phone and hard-powers it off. Once he has his earpiece paired to the burner phone, he heads out the door. He has a lot of calls to make between home and his dinner meeting.

* * *

><p><em>Something is going on. He's not just worried about Weldon.<em>

She keeps sneaking sideways glances at him, trying to figure out what's up.

They are sitting at a westbound light on 2nd, heading into the Bowery toward this "DAG Corp" office, when she finally speaks up. "Castle?"

He looks over, sees her giving him that speculative look. "What?"

"What's up? You seem a little distracted, today. You're not upset about before, are you? About Weldon?"

"No, no. Not worried about Bob."

"So, what then?"

He's terrible at lying to her, but he has a few fall-back positions that still work. "Deadline coming up. I'm a little behind." His throat tightens at the lie, but he forces himself to double-down. "Strike that, way behind."

She smiles then, making him feel even worse about the prevarication. "If you need to head home to work, I'm not going to be offended."

"No, no, this case is too interesting to skip out."

_I need to watch out for Bob._

* * *

><p>Martha turns on a dime as he comes through the door, reaches into the overhead cabinet and pulls down another wine glass. "So, how's the case of the phone sex gal who knew too much going?"<p>

Castle drops his jacket and keys on the table next to the stairs before joining her at the kitchen island. "It's more of a conspiracy thriller. Like 'The Conversation' or, uh, 'Blow Out'."

"Ah." She sets his glass on the counter top, reaches for the Beaujolais and pours him a healthy portion.

"Everyone wants this recording and the secrets on it."

She knows by his bearing that he's eager to talk about the case, and only the barest of prompts will be needed. "Very mysterious..."

"Yeah, and that's not the only mystery. Why would a woman like Laura Cambridge, a highly educated professor, suddenly quit everything and drop out of her life for a series of menial jobs, culminating in the wonderful world of phone sex?" His brow furrows more deeply as he considers it. "None of the pieces fit." He takes a sip, pauses briefly to enjoy the light flavor and allow himself to relax.

"Who called her?" She motions briefly, talking with her hands, as usual. "I mean, you must be able to trace the call even though you don't have the recording, right?"

"Well, we have subpoenaed a list of all the incoming calls on Laura's shifts, but that's going to be like looking for a needle in a needle stack." He knows that there will hundreds - perhaps _thousands_ - of calls in that list. The very thought of trying to narrow it down gnaws at the underpinnings of his habitual optimism.

His phone takes that opportunity to break into the conversation. He draws it out, hits "answer" without even glancing at the screen, expecting to hear Beckett or one of the boys. "Hello?"

"Mr. Castle. Do you remember me?" He feels his mouth go dry at the familiar voice, his back going ramrod-straight as he looks up at his mother. Her head tilts as she regards him, and she can feel her hackles rising at his expression. "I called you before," the man continues, "about Detective Beckett's safety."

Castle clamps down on the bloom of panic, manages to keep his voice even. "I remember."

"Once again, Mr. Castle, it seems that we need to talk."

Castle takes another bolstering swig of wine, then rises and turns toward his office. He motions for his mother to follow while putting a shushing finger to his lips. He feels a surge of relief as she nods, not fighting him on it.

"I haven't heard from you in months, Mr. Smith. Beckett hasn't gone anywhere near her mother's case. Why are you calling now?"

"You are currently investigating the murder of a woman named Laura Cambridge."

_Oh, shit._ He pauses, swallows reflexively. "Yes, we are. Care to offer me some insight?"

"There is a lot more going on than just this woman's murder. Much greater forces are at play than you realize."

"Is Beckett in danger?"

Silence on the line.

"Is she?"

"Mr. Castle, it seems Roy's opinion of you was warranted."

"What? Why would you... What do you mean?"

"I find it telling that the first question out of your mouth isn't: 'Are we in danger?', but rather: 'Is _Beckett_ in danger?'" He pauses. "You _do_ realize they could just as easily target you, don't you?"

"They could have shot me at the funeral. They could have come after me any time since. They haven't."

"Nevertheless, it bespeaks a certain selflessness that I respect."

Castle doesn't want Smith's respect; he wants his _help_. "You still haven't answered the question. Is she in danger?"

"Not directly. No need to worry about anything like that yet. If that changes, I _will_ call you."

"Is there a connection to city hall? Something real, not just some coincidental use of one of their vehicles?"

"I can't say."

"Can't? Or _won't?_"

"I am just as much in the dark about some of this as you are, Mr. Castle. I know certain things. I _suspect_ other things. I'm trying to confirm those suspicions now."

"So why are you calling? Just to ruin my sleep?"

"I'm calling to... provide you a broader perspective. And to offer you a way to contact me if you really need help. Take down this number."

Castle scrabbles for a pen, pulls over his memo pad. "Ready."

"The number is 212 555-3663; I'm confident that when the time comes, you'll know."

"Can't you tell me..."

"Goodbye, Mr. Castle. Call me if you _need_ me."

The line clicks, then goes silent.

* * *

><p>He squelches the urge to call Holt, call him immediately and beg the man to do the job, do it right away, money no object. He recognizes it for the manifestation of panic that it is.<p>

He remembers this feeling, this mind set. It's the just-this-side-of-hysteria feeling that he lived with for most of the previous summer. Every night, it seemed, when he'd worked himself to the point where it felt like his body was just going to give out and shut down, and as his eyelids where drooping as if weighted, the thought would come.

_"What if this is the day?"_

What if this is the day they come for her again, they come to finish the job? Would he be able to live with himself? Would he be able to look in the mirror and know that he had done everything, absolutely _everything_ he could?

At that thought, his mind would invariably put the lash to his faltering body and sleep would be put off yet again.

For two months straight he did this, as lead after lead evaporated and nothing could be gleaned from the reams of data he and Pierce had stolen. Two months until he was finally cut off from the investigation by Captain Gates and his body ultimately rebelled against his will. The frantic terror that had driven him was finally subdued by a grudging acceptance that if they had not come for her in two months, then they likely never would.

Then, with the first phone call from Mr. Smith, he had finally been able to put a stake through the heart of that obsession. The threat was still there, yes, but the _question_ was gone. The uncertainty that drove him nearly to distraction was replaced by something more manageable, and a determination that he could and would save Beckett from herself. He would find a way to steer her onto a safe path.

He sees now in retrospect that this had been his salvation, that he would almost certainly have gone insane if he'd kept going like he was.

His writer's mind grimly appreciates the irony that this second contact from Smith could pull him right back into that sucking vortex of panic.

_If that changes, I will call you._

He'll just have to have a little faith in the mysterious Mr. Smith.

* * *

><p>The video of the Mayor with Laura nearby threw him a little, he has to admit, but his faith in Weldon is so solid that he doesn't give it nearly the sort of thought that Beckett does.<p>

As a result, he's not really prepared for the altercation to come.

The silence in the car is uncomfortable, but he's not really thinking about the potential conflict with Beckett. His brain is working furiously to get a grip on an idea that refuses to resolve.

Something about it just... gnaws at him. Why did Laura have to spend so _much_ time watching those tapes? What could she possibly have gained by that?

What was she _really_ looking for?

There's something there, but he can't grasp it clearly enough to even start to articulate it to Beckett.

Beckett, unfortunately, takes his silence for petulance, or some sort of passive-aggressive silent treatment, and by the time they reach the precinct, her frustration is close to the boiling point.

And once the argument begins...

Castle can feel it going South, Beckett going more and more "by the book" as they speak. Nothing he says is even making a dent in the armor.

With the cashmere coat and the video showing the physical proximity of victim and suspect, nothing he can say is going to dissuade her. He can _see_ it in her eyes as she shuts it down, makes her decision.

"Ryan? You're with me." She grits her teeth, turns back to him. "Castle, I'm sorry but you can't be objective on this one, so, I'm going to have to pursue it on my own."

He doesn't know whether to feel comforted or ashamed at the look of sympathy on Ryan's face.

* * *

><p>Ryan keeps his peace all the way down to the garage. Until they pull out into traffic. Three blocks down the street.<p>

"It sucks, Beckett. It sucks, but you made the right call."

She spares him a glance as the light changes and they pull to a stop. "I... I'm just feeling a lot of deja vu, here."

"Yeah, Castle can be... overly loyal, and sometimes to the wrong people, but..."

"But what?"

"Do I have to remind you how the Westlake case turned out?"

She slaps the wheel in frustration. "I _know!_ Don't you think I remember?"

"You don't think he's smart enough to learn from experience, Beckett?"

"What exactly does that mean?"

"That had to sting. It had to sting a _lot_. Do you think he'd make the same mistake twice?"

"That's what I'm worried about."

"Worried? I don't..."

"What if we're _wrong_, Ryan?"

And to that, Ryan had nothing to say.

* * *

><p>He's more than a little hurt by her lack of confidence in him. Was she not <em>here<em> during Damien's case? Did that not count for _anything?_

When the evidence came in, he'd accepted it, accepted what it meant about his judgment, how wrong he had been about Westlake's character. And then he'd gone to his childhood friend's home and practically slapped the cuffs on, himself.

Now she thinks he can't be objective about Bob Weldon?

The elevator doors open, and she's right there.

He steps out, fighting to keep his face neutral, his body language open. "You going to see Weldon?"

"Yes." Tight-lipped. Noncommittal.

"I'd like to come with you. I... think I can help."

She shakes her head, hating it, hating the whole situation. Why did they have to do this again? "I don't think you can."

Castle can see it, just as he always does. How conflicted she is, how she _wants_ him to talk her into it. "I heard what you said. I _did_. And I think I can be a valuable asset." He shrugs, resists the urge to cross his arms. "I play poker with the guy. I can tell when he's bluffing."

"And what if I have to force his hand? Can you be an asset then?"

Castle pauses, almost ill with the desire to remind her. Christ, it hurts, the lack of faith. Didn't he prove himself once before? "I don't think he did it. But if he did, I want to know. That makes me objective."

She purses her lips, finally nods.

They don't speak again before they reach City Hall.

And then everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

* * *

><p>He has three emails from Pierce waiting when he gets home. One of them is almost two days old; he can't afford to put off answering any longer.<p>

Pierce answers on the first ring. "Hey, Rick. I was starting to get a little nervous."

"Join the club, friend. Things are going nuts over here. Someone's trying to run our Mayor out of office."

"What, they're after Weldon?"

"Yes, Weldon. I've known the guy for more than a decade. There's no _way_ he's guilty of what they're trying to hang on him." He blows out a frustrated breath. "He thinks there's a conspiracy against him, and I think he's right."

"Huh. Maybe it's not the best time to discuss this. I could just write it up in an email, instead."

"No, no. I can use the distraction. What've you got?"

"I think I've managed to track down one of the IT folks who worked at Sterling Investments back in the early 90s. It's about three degrees of separation, but I should be able to get a current email address. If I can find even one of them, I can probably get a line on more of them."

"Any info on this person, at all?"

"If the info I have is accurate, it's one of their database programmers. Potentially a goldmine; any DB guys will have worked closely with the system administrators, and the SysAds would have held the keys to the kingdom. Who knows what they could tell us?"

_Thank God, some good news for a change._ "That's... great news, Pierce; you have _no_ idea. How long until you can get in touch?"

"I've got feelers out now. We'll see what happens; if I don't hear back within two days, I'll try a more direct approach. I should have _something_ within three or four days, at most."

He hears Martha come through the front door, and cuts the conversation short. "Gotta go, Pierce. Send me that email." He hangs up just as Martha calls to him from the entryway.

"Richard!"

"Yes, Mother?"

"Turn on the TV, channel 11 - Robert is holding a press conference!"

* * *

><p>He glances at the slim, zippered ballistic-nylon case tucked into the coffee holder. Half an hour before, it had been resting in his office safe. <em>Fucking waste of effort.<em> Stupid idea, in retrospect. Obviously Smith wasn't going to give Castle an opportunity to locate his vehicle, much less get close enough to it to affix one of the tracking devices.

Tracking Smith was a pipe dream, but the meet still would have been worth it if he'd actually had anything _worthwhile_ to pass along.

What kind of _help_ is this? He'd been so _sure_ that if he could get Smith to meet him, if he could see the man face to face, he'd be able to get _something_ useful out of him. Get a better feel for him, at least, a better sense of whether he could be trusted, what he knew and how. Instead...

He grips the wheel in a stranglehold, calls on all the patience he has left not to floor the Ferrari. _Damn_ Smith and his cryptic _bullshit!_

_Listen to the evidence. That's what Laura did._

That one sentence keeps reverberating in his head, meshing oddly with the questions that are still churning there from the previous day.

Why _did_ she spend so much time watching that b-roll footage? Eight _hours?_ What was she looking... _looking..._

_She fell asleep. Her eyes were closed._

Wait.

_Her eyes were closed. That **doesn't** mean she was asleep._

_Listen to the evidence. That's what Laura did._

Oh, hell. She wasn't _looking_ at all. She was _listening._

Of course she was listening. They already knew that she heard something on a call. She heard a _voice_ on a call. She knew a _voice_, and she was trying to match it to a _face_.

He makes a quick right, doubling back to head for the DAG office. Simultaneously, he pulls out his phone and voice-searches for a Gotham 11 phone number.

* * *

><p>Castle knocks briskly, breathes a sigh of relief when the door to the precinct CCTV room opens.<p>

"Castle, what are you doing here?"

"Hey, Avery. We've got a guy up in Homicide who claims to be a lawyer for the suspect we just brought in. Can you pull up the cams for that floor?"

"Sure, give me a sec." Avery drops back into his chair, swivels and squeals back across the floor to his console. His fingers flip nimbly across the buttons there and the image on the primary monitor flashes twice before settling on the break room.

There, next to the espresso machine, are Jordan Norris and their mystery lawyer, Bill Moss. Moss is leaning in, looming over the shorter Norris and speaking urgently.

"That's him. He claimed to be Norris' attorney, but Norris clearly didn't know him." His lips thin into a grimace. "Said he'd been 'retained to represent him.' Did you see him arrive?"

"Yeah, yeah, as a matter of fact, I did. Hold on a minute. Watch the top left monitor."

But Castle isn't taking his eyes off Moss. As he watches, Norris moves away from the counter and Moss turns toward him, now facing the camera at roughly a 3/4 angle. It's enough that Castle can see his face, and more importantly, his mouth.

"Castle?"

"Just a second, Avery."

Avery's head tilts curiously, watching Castle watch Moss. He glances quickly back and forth from Castle to the monitor, and catches Castle's lips moving. _Is he... mimicking the guy?_ His eyes flick back and forth, back and forth, and it suddenly dawns on him. _Jesus. He's reading the guy's lips._

Avery grabs his coffee mug, takes a sip to hide his grin. He looks up from his cup just in time to see the pair moving out of the camera's line of sight toward the break room door. He sets his mug back on the console.

Castle turns his attention to the top left screen, and Avery can see his jaw working, see the barely concealed anger. "OK, what were you gonna show me?"

"Take a look. See the silver Benz? That's the vehicle he arrived in."

Castle grabs the notepad and pen next to Avery's coffee, scratches down the tag number. "Where is that?"

"Parking level one. Take the elevator down, get out at P1, turn right and go about 20 steps. It'll be on the right."

Castle jots his cell on the pad, hands it to Avery. "Track 'em. Call me when they get into the elevator."

Then he sprints for the stairs.

* * *

><p>It's 3 floors down at a near-breakneck pace. He nearly twists his knee, swinging around and down the last flight of stairs to parking; his leg twinges viciously as he leaps down the last 5 stairs, slamming into the door release bar and praying nobody is directly on the other side as it bursts open.<p>

He's already digging in his right breast pocket for the slim case as he dashes down the ramp to the right. He's unzipping the case as he catches sight of the vehicle, keeping to the left so that he passes underneath the camera and below its field of view.

He tucks the case under his right arm as he draws a spare pair of nitrile crime-scene gloves out of his coat pocket, pulls on the right one. He then flips the case open and pulls one of the GPS tracking devices out with his gloved hand. His left thumbnail makes short work of the covering on the double-backed adhesive that covers the back of the device, peeling it away and quickly depositing it in his left jacket pocket.

His cell rings just as he reaches the vehicle. He draws it out with his left hand, checks the screen as he kneels next to the Mercedes on the driver's side, out of sight of the security camera. It's Avery, has to be: the number is the precinct's prefix followed by 5413; the precinct's main line is 5400.

He reaches under the door and feels about, finds a flat surface parallel to the ground. He presses the tracking device down onto it, hard, adhesive tape down. He tugs at the device, decides it's solidly attached.

He stands quickly and continues down the ramp at a pace just short of a run. He thumbs his phone screen. "Castle."

"Hey there, Ethan Hunt. They're in the elevator now, passing the 2nd floor."

"Avery..."

"Funny thing, Castle. Been having problems with the cams on P1 all week; they all flipped out again, just a few minutes ago."

Castle hears the elevator ding its arrival just as he turns the corner at the end of the ramp, ducking out of sight.

"Thanks, Avery. I owe you one."

"Like hell, buddy. I was there last May. You don't owe me a damn thing."


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: **_Wow! Another huge response to the last chapter; thank you all for sticking around, especially with so much time between updates. Hopefully two updates in as many weeks makes up for it a little. Also, I'll be taking some time this weekend to respond to reviews!_

**Disclaimer:** Not my world, just my words.

* * *

><p>He feels a <em>little<em> bad about some of his behavior. He didn't really mean to be so snarky about (and around) Kay Cappuccio. But he did (he _really_ did) and upon reflection, he recognizes it for what it was: embarrassment.

Five years ago, Kay could have been a woman he would've dated. Taken to an event, anyway. Arm candy, paparazzi-bait to get him onto Page Six. The sort that Paula would have tried to set him up with for the publicity.

_That was me. Really, really me._

The thought makes him feel ashamed. And dirty, and vaguely nauseated. He wonders if the thought crossed Beckett's mind; if she looked at Kay, listened to her vapid, self-absorbed blather, and thought (even for a moment): "this woman is just Castle's type."

He _hates_ that idea, hates that he still can't believe he'll ever pass muster with her, that maybe she still sees him as "that guy." Especially since he never really _was_ "that guy."

Most of it was hype, a crafted bad-boy image that he put on like a suit when he went out, and doffed when he got home. Home to his daughter, to his work, to his real life.

Sure, there were a few of those bimbettes and celebutantes that he did more than just take out; he was only human, after all, and there were some long dry spells between and after his marriages. And some of those women were a little smarter and a lot sweeter than expected. But the truth of his exploits was never anything close to the hype.

But he can't _tell her_ that. They don't talk about stuff like that, not really, not as anything other than another way to flirt and tease, and he's never been able to figure out a way to bring it up. His one attempt, during the Bailey case - _You show me yours, I'll show you mine_ - got him absolutely nowhere.

So now he's overcompensating, throwing up a verbal smoke-screen, and he ended up saying some stuff that he now sort of wishes he could take back. Partly because it wasn't really fair, but mostly because he's afraid Kate could see right through it, knew exactly what he was doing.

And he hates the thought of _that_ most of all.

* * *

><p>The emails arrive almost back-to-back, the beep that announces the arrival of Charles' email sounding just as he finishes reading the note from Pierce. He takes a quick moment to scan the 2nd email, finds that, like the one from Pierce, it's just a request for a phone call.<p>

_First come, first served._

Pierce answers on the second ring.

"I found him, Rick." Pierce blurts excitedly, without preamble. "The guy's now working at the Oracle offices in Orlando. Looks like he switched teams."

"Teams?"

"Yeah, you know, DB2 to... never mind." He hears the sound of a mug being set on a desk, followed by a muttered curse. _Spill something, buddy?_ "The point is, I have a contact now. I've placed a phone call to him through a third party, made it sound like a headhunter firm. He should be calling me within a day or two."

"Do you have any reason to believe this guy actually _knows_ anything?"

"Not really. It's possible, but right now I consider him just a source of information. The idea is to try to track down as many of the people who worked at that place as we can, have the ability to get in touch if - or _when_ - we need to."

"When you first called me about this guy, you said that you thought he was a database programmer?"

"Yes, and that's now verified. One of the questions I had Taylor ask him when she called."

"Taylor?"

"Yes, someone I use for stuff like this. She's sharp as a tack, knows how to keep her mouth shut... and she's got a voice that would melt butter. I use her when I want to be sure a guy will answer the phone. Trust me, if a guy's straight, he will _always_ pick up when he sees her number on the screen."

"What if he... plays for the other team?"

"Got a _guy_ for that. And for when I'm dealing with a female contact."

"OK, so, what's next?"

"I'll be talking to him based on the premise that I'm working on staffing for a startup in the financial industry. Sweet deal, stock options, the works. I have a copy of his CV off of Dice, see he has lots of experience in that industry, blah, blah, blah. And oh, by the way, we're going to be building a team and need at least, say, five DB programmers and a couple of AS/400 and UNIX administrators, and do you happen to know anyone who fills the bill?"

"Say, from your days back at Sterling Investments?"

"Exactly. Better than even money he'll be able to give us names and current contacts for at least a few of the people. Promise referral bonuses for anyone he can put us in touch with, lather rinse repeat, and we can probably find anyone from Sterling that's still breathing."

"Excellent. Sounds like you've got it under control, but do you need anything from me?"

"Not for that. There's another thing, though."

"What?"

"I managed to track down an old colleague. Haven't worked with him for a while, but he's an excellent cracker. I heard a rumor that he was back in the game, and that he had a backdoor into several of the major criminal record databases, stuff that's not available to the public. Much more comprehensive than anything we've tapped into so far. Some of them may even include info about investigations, regardless of whether said investigations led to charges being filed."

"You're thinking about running our name list, see if any of them have turned to the dark side?"

"Or, more importantly, were _thought_ to have turned to the dark side, but were never charged. We're assuming our Sleestak is either too smart, too well-connected, or too powerful to have ever been caught."

"Well, I wouldn't exactly call it 'assuming,' more like a strong suspicion based on available evidence."

"Still, doesn't mean that somebody didn't sniff around the guy at some point."

"Fair enough. Good thinking, Pierce. I take it you're bringing it up because you expect it to be expensive?"

"Well, I'm betting he will ask for more than I currently have on hand. I won't know for sure until I talk to him; I just wanted to give you a heads up, so you would know the expense might be incoming. I assume you want me to pursue it?"

"Absolutely. My accountant has been working on the money situation, and he just pinged me, too. Whatever this guy wants, I expect I'll have the money available fairly soon."

"OK, then. Sounds like we're good."

* * *

><p>"Hi Charles; I got your email. Tell me you have good news."<p>

"Hey Rick. Yes, good news. The VC funds are up and running, and I've already got about $300k drawn out for you."

"Thanks, Charles. I'll probably need some of that money fairly soon. Do you have it at your office?"

"No."

"OK, where is it?"

"The cash is in a safe deposit box at First Federal, along with some documentation. You need to stop by my office at some point so I can give you the 2nd copy of the key."

"We've got a case in progress right now, so I can't say exactly when I'll have a chance. Sorry."

"It's money, Rick. It won't spoil. Just give me a little prior warning so I can be sure we don't have any company when you arrive."

"I'll call ahead. Thanks for the quick work, Charles."

"Hey, it's what you pay me for, right?"

"I don't pay you for _this_. This is pure favor-for-a-friend, buddy. Just so you know, I _do_ appreciate it."

"I know you do, Rick. Glad to do it. Just so you know, though: I _do_ expect ring side seats when the day comes."

"Oh, you'll be one of the first to know."

"Thanks, Rick. Take care, and I'll look forward to seeing you later this week."

"Give my best to Nora."

* * *

><p>"Where did you put it, buddy?" Seriously, how many places were there in this apartment for the damn thing to hide? Theodore was one thing, rats are <em>world-champion<em> hiders, but a dog's squeezy toy? What the hell? "You want to help me out here, Royal?"

The dog cocks his head to the right, gives Castle a look that has him halfway to believing the dog deliberately hid the toy; _just messing with the human_. "C'mon, buddy; find Mr. Squeaky! C'mon!"

He wouldn't even be stuck in this frantic search if it weren't for Beckett and her stupid Jedi Mind Tricks. Seriously, best 3 out of 5 against Sean Sears, and _Beckett_ skunks him? What's that about?

Not that he's not happy to have an excuse to visit her at home, but he's still a guy, he has his _pride_. And he's at least fifteen minutes late already, not even out the door yet, and where the hell _is_ it?

He's crawling along the floor outside his office, looking under the book case with a penlight, when the email app on _that_ laptop pings him.

_Of course. It never rains, but it does pour._ He pounds his head on the floor, wonders what he did (lately) to rate this kind of punishment.

He levers himself back to his feet, crosses to the desk in four quick strides.

The email is from William Holt.

_Beckett is gonna kill me._

Five seconds later, the burner phone is at his ear and ringing. He's shocked to find his hands are trembling.

"Mr. Castle, that was far quicker than I expected."

"I've been waiting for your call for weeks, Mr. Holt. Do you have something to tell me?"

"I'll do the job, Mr. Castle. The price will be 500 thousand US; 200 for each home, plus 100 for Gossard's offices in Manhattan. Mr. de Boer does not maintain an office in his home district; he operates out of his home when he is not in DC."

The flood of relief is like nothing he's felt since stepping into Kate's hospital room, seeing her alive. His legs won't hold him up; he drops into his desk chair like he's been boned. He can't get any words past the numb flaps of tissue that used to be lips.

"Mr. Castle? Still there, chum?"

Castle coughs, clears his throat. "Yes, yes. Still here." His brain won't quite engage. "Ummm... so, what next?"

"We have some time; your Congress returned to session this week." He pauses, and Castle can hear him taking a sip of something. "They are scheduled to be in session for most of the next four weeks, which means that other than the odd weekend, these gentlemen won't be at home."

"OK... OK. So, we need to meet. The thing is: we're in the middle of a case, and I can't really bail without getting a lot of questions I don't want to answer."

"It's only about 350 kilometers from DC to New York; Philadelphia is almost exactly halfway. We can meet there with only a few hours' notice."

"Yes, that should work. I can call as soon as I have a chance." He pauses when a thought strikes him. "Wait, when are you scheduled to fly home?"

"This Saturday, but no worries. If I need to, changing the flight would be a trivial expense."

"I can bring you the equipment and half of your fee. We can arrange to deliver the other half when you fly back to do the job."

"That will be acceptable, Mr. Castle. I'll be waiting for your call."

"Thank you, Mr. Holt. I'll look forward to meeting you soon."

He closes the connection, then just sits there, fighting to keep his breathing slow and even for a few seconds. He's just about to get up and resume the Great Squeaky Toy Search when he hears the click of doggy claws on hardwood, and a high-pitched squeak sounds from the doorway of the office, startling him.

Until this moment, if anyone had asked, he would have sworn that it wasn't possible for a dog to grin - especially with his mouth full.

* * *

><p>When she was 18, the summer after graduation, she took three of her best friends up to the family cabin in the Poconos. They spent two weeks, no parents, no boys, nothing but lazy days in the early-summer sun and long nights gossiping and speculating about the coming college adventure.<p>

On the third day, they hiked the trail around to the East side of the lake; there was a small waterfall where one of the two streams that fed the lake emptied into it, and next to the waterfall a bluff that overhung the lake almost 40 feet high.

She remembers now the sensation of dashing off that bluff, her stomach leaping up into her throat and a dizzying rush of adrenaline as the water rushed up to meet her.

It hasn't been all _that_ long; Josh was only 8 months behind her, and she hasn't even been aware of missing it, human contact, the feeling of warm skin against her own. But this is _Castle_, and when his thumb presses into the back of her hand, stroking in gentle circles, all the air in the room seems to retreat to one corner, and her mouth goes dry.

He's just _touching her hand_, for God's sake!

Still she stands there, frozen, all the circuits in her brain shorted. She looks up and finds his eyes on hers, sees an almost comical dumbstruck expression on his face, like he can't believe he's doing it but doesn't know how to stop.

She swallows, once, twice, finally manages to find her voice but can't come up with anything more to say than a slightly breathy "Castle..."

But it's enough to break the spell.

Then, suddenly, he's all stammering and classic Castle deflecting humor, and practically stumbling in his haste to get out the door.

It's only after he's gone that it hits her: _she wishes he hadn't left._

* * *

><p>He's <em>still<em> stumbling when he gets back to the loft, probably because you can't walk without stumbling when you're kicking yourself.

He should have gone _back_. Surely he could have come up with some sort of excuse.

He wants to know what that _look_ meant. Press her a little more, try to get her to open up.

Because the thought hit him in the cab: _what if she's waiting for me?_

The thought is both exhilarating and heartbreaking; that he's been wrong, for who knows how long, and she actually wants to _move forward_. That all this time he's been waiting for her, in fact she's been waiting for _him_.

She's got to be so used to _him_ being the one pushing, testing the boundaries. Maybe she's confused by his restraint. Maybe she thinks he's had second thoughts, or he's still holding a grudge over the previous summer.

He wouldn't believe it of her if he hadn't seen that look in her eyes. She's so fearless about everything; if she wanted to move forward, surely there's nothing that would stop her... is there?

He's looking around for some sort of doggy treat or trinket that he can use as an excuse, considering trying to find a pet supply place that's open late, when the laptop pings.

_Ahhh, crap._

_First things first_, he tells himself, because it's better than thinking himself a coward.

The email is from Pierce; he has the burner cell out almost without thinking.

"Pierce here."

"It's me. What's up?"

"I've got some information on our Bill Moss, Esquire. Three locations that he has driven to more than once in the past week."

"Will I be shocked? Are you going to wow me?"

"Not that much. Two locations are exactly what you would expect: his legal firm and what I assume to be his home."

"Assume?"

"Well, his residence isn't public record, but the vehicle has been parked overnight in the parking garage of an apartment building in Tribeca every night since last week."

"OK, reasonable assumption. But you said 'three locations.'"

"Yes, I did. Three times in the past week, he has driven from the building where his law office is located to a business complex on Worth Street in Lower Manhattan."

"I assume you have more details?"

"He spent two hours there last Thursday afternoon, the day after you met him. He was there again for about an hour and a half on Friday morning, and then _again_ for about an hour this afternoon."

"Anything else?"

"Sadly, no. It's a big complex, and while I've managed to get a copy of their online directory, I don't have any idea who he was visiting or why. There are literally a hundred possibilities."

"Great. You can't narrow it down _at all_?"

"Rick, that's _after_ narrowing it down."

"Right." Rick's brow furrows in thought. "I could look at hiring someone to stake out the building, follow him inside and see where he's going."

"Heh. Yeah, you _could_..." Rick knows that tone. It's Pierce's _I'm sandbagging you_ tone. He's got something up his sleeve.

"OK, Pierce, it's late and I'm tired. Spill it."

"TV surveillance system, buddy."

"You hacked it?"

"Well, not _me_. I hired it out, of course, to a local guy I know, because it requires physical access to the building. Also, the job is underway, not done. But it's pretty much guaranteed to be done soon."

"Guaranteed?"

"The system is practically wide open, man. It's all wireless from the cameras to a switching station in the networking closet on each floor, then wired from there. They probably haven't upgraded the system in over a decade. The wireless is 'secured' with WEP64, for God's sake."

"That's bad, I'm guessing?"

"Yeah, that's bad, Rick. WEP64 is so crackable it's pathetic. Drop a box with a wireless adapter set in promiscuous mode somewhere on the floor, and you can capture enough data packets in less than 3 minutes to be about 95% certain that you can recover the key." Pierce chuckles. "Hell, the biggest delay will be time spent moving the capture device from floor to floor."

"Have I mentioned lately that you _rock?_"

"Not per se, but you manage to get the thought across anyway."

* * *

><p>Southbound I-95 is fairly open at this time of night; he passes New Brunswick just before 6:15 pm, then the exit for Trenton around 6:40, doing a prudent 3 miles over the speed limit. He left the Ferrari and took the S400; he's been pulled over in the Ferrari in the past for no reason other than the cop wanted a closer look.<p>

Normally, this would only be an annoyance; but he sure as hell doesn't want to risk it when he's hauling a briefcase full of bootlegged electronic monitoring gear and a quarter million in cash.

He takes the opportunity to make another call ahead.

"'Allo."

"It's me. Just checking in. You haven't been delayed?"

"No, I have not." A chuckle drifts back across the line. "You seem a little high-strung, sir. If you're going to be involved in this sort of operation, you should learn how to relax."

"I can relax. I _am_ relaxed. What makes you think I'm not relaxed?"

"Maybe that this is the third time you've called me since we scheduled our meeting."

"That's fair."

"I'm about 30 minutes south of our rendezvous. Bridge Street exit off 95, left about 500 meters to Torresdale, right and about 1500 meters up on the left hand side."

"You'll probably beat me by about 10 minutes. Order me a cheesesteak and a chocolate shake, will you?"

"Happy to; I'll even cough up the dosh, on one condition."

Castle can't help the smile that spreads across his face. "Yes, I promised you a story, didn't I?"

"Indeed you did."


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N:** _Great Scott! It looks like my readership has almost doubled in the last month. I find it both humbling and encouraging; thanks to all of you for your support! I hid a very obscure in-joke in the last chapter; I wondered if anyone might pick up on it, but so far nobody has. Won't tell you the joke, just telling you it's there. We'll see if anyone figures it out now._

**Disclaimer:** Not my world, just my words.

* * *

><p>The restaurant is more than unassuming; it looks like a dive, a converted brick two-story nested between two residential buildings. The one to the left even has a faded "Beware of Dog" sign in the window. Two ventilation fan outlets above the front windows frame a sign announcing "Since 1949 - The Only Steak Sandwich of it's Kind" - <em>it's, not its,<em> he notes with a grin. Across the street is a service garage and next to that, on the corner, a small grocery.

Still, dive or no, even at 7:15 at night, it's clearly busy; there's no parking on the block, on either side of the street, and people are standing outside, apparently waiting for a table.

He continues on through the next intersection, pulls into a space in front of a dentist's office. As he gets out and locks his door, he notices across the street an out-of-business convenience store right next to a gun shop. Delia's (what a name for a gun store) advertises police equipment and reloading supplies as well as Glocks, Colts, and half a dozen other gun brands.

_I'm guessing that convenience store didn't go out of business because of too many robberies._

He pockets his key and crosses the street on the light, heads back up Torresdale to the restaurant.

He excuses himself to the couple standing next to the door, pulls it open and pokes his head inside. Holt is already seated at a table on the right-hand wall, a basket of fries and two milkshakes in front of him. Holt raises a fry-laden hand in greeting, then pops the fry into his mouth.

He takes off his jacket, drapes it on the chair, settles himself into the seat. He downs half the glass of water next to his napkin and silverware, then turns his attention to the shake.

_Oh yeah, that's good._

Their waitress appears a few seconds later, a petite short-haired brunette who looks like a college student. She shows them a dazzling smile, revealing an adorable set of dimples, and sets down two cardboard trays laden with cheesesteak sandwiches; she adds an order of fries for Castle. "Careful, they're right out of the fryer." He sets the shake back down, nods thanks to her.

"You guys want anything else?"

Holt shoots Castle a questioning look; Castle, still occupied with the _awesome_ milkshake, just shakes his head. Holt turns back to the girl and smiles. "No, thanks luv."

They both take some time to savor a few bites of their sandwiches. Holt's eyebrows edge up appreciatively. Castle smiles and nods. "Patterson told me once, years ago, to try this place. Never had a chance before."

"I thought the chips were good, but this sandwich is amazing."

"He's never steered me wrong."

They lapse back into a comfortable silence, continue their meal. When they're both down to nothing but their drinks and the remains of their fries, Holt clears his throat elaborately and gives Castle an expectant look.

Castle glances around; the only people within earshot are a quietly boisterous group of high school kids who clearly had no interest in them or their conversation.

"The whole thing started almost twenty years ago, with a small group of cops. These cops were kidnapping mobsters, beating the hell out of them, and then ransoming them back to their organizations."

"Sounds a bit like a public service."

"Yes, well, the operation went South on them when they tried to kidnap a very nasty enforcer named Pulgatti and someone ended up dead."

"One of the cops?"

"No, another supposed mobster who was with Pulgatti at the time."

"Supposed?"

"Turns out he was actually an undercover Fed."

"Hmmm... awkward."

"To say the least. Anyway, they framed Pulgatti for the killing; wasn't hard to make the case that the Fed's cover had been blown and Pulgatti had been assigned to take him out. It was the sort of thing he was known for, anyway. Pulgatti confessed to avoid the death penalty, and he's been in prison ever since."

"So, we have a wrongly convicted mobster in prison."

"Yes, which wouldn't be the sort of thing I'd normally shed many tears over. The guy apparently had quite a body count, but had never been convicted of anything worse than assault."

"Still not seeing how this leads to _our_ collaboration."

"Getting to that. Not long after, somebody caught wind of what these cops were up to. But instead of turning them in, he blackmailed _them_ for all the money they had collected from the mob."

"Any idea how much money?"

"Could have been millions; we don't really know. Probably enough to fund an election campaign. Can't ask the cops who were involved; they're all dead. As you might guess, none of them died peacefully in bed."

"Karma?"

"The argument could be made. But the collateral damage continues. Fast forward almost a decade; Pulgatti got in touch with a civil rights lawyer, told her his story. She agreed to look into his case, pro bono. Her name was Johanna Beckett."

Holt's eyes light up with recognition; he has already made the connection. "Any relation to the lovely Detective Beckett?"

"Her mother. Beckett was just a kid, a freshman in college at the time."

Holt nods, his suspicion confirmed.

"Johanna involved several other people in her investigation, started digging. The blackmailer found out about her investigation, and was obviously afraid that it would blow back on him, so he hired a hitman to kill all of them."

"All?"

"All four of them were murdered over the space of about four months in early '99. The murders remained unsolved until roughly two years ago, when we caught the hitman."

"But not the man who hired him."

"The hitman was killed while trying to escape custody." Castle's voice roughens at the end; he still feels the pang of regret for the sacrifice Kate made for him. She never hesitated, shot the man in a heartbeat for Castle's sake. Wiped out the only link to her mother's killer, and then refused to let him blame himself.

_I've gotten used to you pulling my pigtails._ He's pretty sure that was the moment he truly fell in love with her. Before that there was fascination, there was affection, there was a healthy dose of lust; after, he was lost.

"He never told you anything of use?"

"Just that we'd never touch the guy, that he'd bury us."

"And you think one of these two men is that guy."

"One of them was an assistant DA in the early 90s. The other was an officer in Internal Affairs at the same time. They both came into a lot of money around that time, and unlike a third man I've investigated, I cannot confirm the 'official' story of how they got their money."

"And so you've decided to dig deeper. But why in this way? Any evidence you get will be completely useless in any trial. Fruit of the poisonous tree, and all that."

"I don't care. Bringing him to justice isn't my priority."

"Then what is?"

"Keeping my partner alive."

"And she's in danger? Why, if the hitman is dead and you have no leads?"

"Leads or no leads, last year he sent a sniper for her. She was shot but survived. He doesn't get a second chance."

Holt eyes him steadily for a few seconds, then takes a sip of his water.

"I'm not a particularly righteous man, Mr. Castle. I steal things for a living, after all. But the sort of things I steal normally belong to people who won't really feel the loss. I've never killed anyone, never even hurt anyone. As such, I'm rarely troubled by pangs of conscience."

"I'm in no position to judge you, Mr. Holt. I wouldn't feel inclined to, anyway. But I need your help to do this."

"Sounds like getting mixed up in this could be bad for my health."

Castle holds his breath, tries not to let the sudden trepidation make its way to his face. He forces himself to wait.

"No fear, sir. I've agreed to do it and I _do_ keep my word. It's just better to know what I'm getting into so I can take precautions."

"Such as?"

"When I return to do the job, I'll travel under another identity. You won't know it, so you can't spill it. I'll also travel via another country, hide my trail. Finally, this will have to be our last direct contact. Any further communications will be only by encrypted email. I will provide you another phone number, an anonymous answering service. Use it only in the event of an emergency."

"Define emergency."

"Oh my God, our cover is blown, run for your life; that sort of thing."

"Works for me." Castle slurps down the last of his shake, sets the cup down. "Anything else?"

"I think that covers it. You have something for me?"

"In my car." He stands up, shrugs on his jacket.

Holt takes out his wallet, produces a pair of twenties. He waves at the waitress; when she smiles and waves back, he holds up the twenties and, when she smiles again and nods, puts them on the table and weights them down with the salt shaker. He picks up his shake, mumbling "too bloody good to waste," and stands. "Let's go."

They amble up the street in the gathering dusk. Holt gives him a few sideways glances and then, with a rueful look, says, "I would ask you to give my regards to your Detective, but..."

"Yes, I understand. Maybe someday I'll be able to tell _her_ a story."

"This may be the most interesting job I've ever taken."

"Glad to hear it. Hope we get a chance to laugh about it together, someday."

They reach Castle's car, and he extracts the briefcase from the passenger footwell, hands it to Holt. Holt in turn hands him a key. "This key opens locker 147 at the bus station on 8th Avenue in Manhattan. You can leave the rest of my fee there, email me when that's done."

"When will you be coming back?"

"I'll be back in about four days. I'll stay as long as necessary to finish the job. I'll email you updates as each step is completed."

"Thank you, Mr. Holt."

"Thank you for trusting me with your story, Mr. Castle. I'll be in touch."

* * *

><p>Just before midnight he walks back into the loft, exhausted but hopeful and more than a little buzzed. Things are moving. Some serious leads are forthcoming, he can feel it. He debates checking for emails from Pierce, but it's unlikely anything has happened with Moss in the last 24 hours. With the late nights on the last case, plus 6 hours on the road, he really needs to crash.<p>

He starts shedding clothing just past the door to his bedroom, too tired to bother with putting it in the hampers, just dropping items on the floor as he moves aimlessly around the room. When he's down to boxers and socks he sits on the side of his bed, looks at his phone, and resists the urge to text Beckett.

Instead, he takes off his watch, lays it on the bedside table alongside his phone, then strips off his socks. Stretching out on top of the bedspread, he closes his eyes and tries to shut his brain down.

Things are moving. It's under control. Soon there will be new intel coming from multiple sources. Kate hasn't made any connection between the Cambridge case and the Sleestak, spun out over that. It's under control.

Kate: he can see her in his mind's eye, hair pulled back in that messy bun she wears when she's at home. Casual in her jeans and dark gray chemise, face almost bare of makeup, her eyes the light milk-chocolate brown color that they take on in soft, indirect light.

He knows every curve and plane of her face, but it's those eyes that haunt him now; he sees them in his dreams, pictures them every time he closes his own.

_Is she waiting for me?_

It's almost an hour before he finally drifts off.

In the morning, another body has dropped; he awakens to a text from Beckett with a note to meet her and an address.

_On my way in 20 minutes_

_Old nightclub - heard of the Pennybaker?_

_Yes! Big deal, 30s and 40s_

_Maybe you should wear spats and a fedora_

_Spats went out in the 30s, Beckett_

_Metrosexual_


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N:** _OK, since nobody twigged to the joke in chapter 17 (and 18), I'll spill the beans. I had a friend from Philadelphia when I lived in Seattle; he swore up and down that a place with the somewhat offensive name of "Chink's Steaks" was both a dive **and** the purveyor of the best cheesesteaks in Philly. So naturally, when I was looking for a place for Rick and William to have their clandestine link-up, I went looking for it. Turns out that Chink's is now called "Joe's Steaks and Soda Shop". I'm not **saying** that it's the same "Joe's" as in "Secret's Safe With Me," but... 4.5 stars on Yelp with almost 125 reviews, and the ratings sure ain't for the ambiance. The Google street view of the place is exactly as I described._

**Disclaimer:** Not my world, just my words.

* * *

><p>William Holt is a legacy.<p>

His grandfather was a master thief; his father, not so much. His father _was_ good, very good, but his mind worked by leaps of intuition rather than methodical, logical analysis. Unfortunately, those intuitive leaps were brilliant enough, often enough, that he developed an entirely unjustified confidence in his hunches.

Piers Holt spent many of his son's formative years in quod.

Young William benefited from an unlikely confluence of near-providential factors. First, he learned his trade more from his grandfather than his father; second, he inherited his mother's intellect: methodical to the point of plodding, but sharp as a razor. And finally, his father's absence, and the reasons for it, taught him an almost pathological caution and attention to detail.

Just possibly, it's also true that genius skips a generation. Regardless of the reason, William worked as a professional thief of the highest echelon for over two decades before anyone in law enforcement even learned his name.

He takes some comfort in the fact that it wasn't actually a _cop_ that ferreted him out, but another thief of the same caliber. He'd always wondered who "Jackal" was, and it was _almost_ worth the indignity of an arrest to learn that worthy's identity.

What a _woman._

Making Richard Castle's acquaintance, on the other hand, was merely... serendipitous - or so he thought, until their recent dinner. Now he feels the hand of providence once again.

True, Mr. Castle might be playing him; but William Holt has been played by the best, and his nose for chicanery is keen, indeed. His experience tells him that Castle is being straight with him; the scent Holt gets from him is not deception, but something entirely different.

Richard Castle is a man in love.

To William Holt, that makes him far more dangerous, because Holt's intellect isn't the only thing he inherited from his mother: he got her fondness for romance, as well.

Not for the first time, he curses that weakness as he sits at his timeworn desk and studies the documentation that Mr. Castle's gadget man included with the surveillance hardware. This person, male or female, seems to have done superb work; not absolute world-class, but very, very impressive indeed.

More than good enough for what Castle has in mind... but not good enough for what Holt has in mind. Not good enough for the notion that took root in his head as he and the writer parted ways at the man's vehicle, and has been growing to fruition ever since.

Richard Castle is willing to risk his freedom and spend great sums of money to keep his partner alive. Partner, indeed. Holt remembers Detective Beckett very well; a woman like that lodges in the memory. But he remembers even more clearly Mr. Castle's mien in her presence, the way he hovered, the way he... _attended_ her.

This is a man in love, one with means, and a willingness to expend those means for the object of his adoration. It came through in his behavior, and it infused every word as the man told their story.

And now Holt has caught the bug; caught it so badly that he violated his own protocols and brought some of the equipment back home with him rather than leaving it all at the safe drop in Newark. He has someone for that sort of transport, a reliable mule with a pristine record. It cost him a business-class ticket and three nights at the Savoy, a price he paid without hesitation. Because he has an idea, and the idea refuses to be ignored.

_I can be in Florence by morning._

He wonders, as he packs a duffel, whether Kate Beckett has any idea what her partner is risking for her. Unlikely; everything about Detective Beckett screamed "straight arrow," and what Richard Castle is doing is _beyond_ illegal. Which means he must be keeping this from her, as well. That's likely to end badly.

_There'll be a day of reckoning, by and by._

* * *

><p>A real gumshoe's diary; how cool is <em>that?<em> How could Beckett just... shrug this thing off? Once he got started, he just couldn't put the thing down. Thank God she didn't stand on protocol, make him leave it at the precinct, because he probably would've ended up sleeping in the break room.

"The Blue Butterfly; it's a _necklace!_" He reaches for his glass. "That's why Stan Banks was killed!"

"Why am I narrating?"

He's just pulling up a browser to start searching for info on the Blue Butterfly when the secure mail app pings. _Oh, man. And I was just about to get on a roll._

He drags the secure laptop over, opens the email, sees it's from Pierce. They've cracked the TV surveillance system, and he has a price tag on the background searches. Castle has the burner phone out and ringing in 10 seconds.

"Pierce here."

"Great news, buddy! How long until you have any more info, do you think?"

"Well, Moss has visited that place at least once each week for the past two weeks."

"So, probably within a few days."

"Yep. I'll let you know as soon as it happens."

"OK, now what about the bad news?"

"The rumors are true; I contacted him by email a few days ago, let him know what I'm after."

"And?"

"He can run our 'high priority' list for 10,000. To run everyone we still have in the 'possibles' list, we're looking at 250k."

"Cheap at twice the price."

"It's your dough, of course. But there's another thing: the process will be drawn out. He'll only run the names sporadically and during daytime hours, so as to camouflage the activity. We're going to need the high priority names run first, because he'll only run about 2 to 300 names a day."

"Weekdays only?"

"Yes."

Castle does some quick math in his head. "So it's going to take about a month and a half to run all 7,800 names."

"Yeah, that's what my math comes out to as well."

"Tell him he's on. I'll have the money for you by next week."

* * *

><p>The Russian's workshop is on the third floor above a leather goods shop on <em>Via dei Calzaiuoli<em>, a few minutes' walk south of the _Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore_. Holt has visited often enough that he knows the protocol: don't show up before 10 am; don't show up without an espresso in hand.

Holt even knows the man's favorite bean and roast.

He grumbles at Holt's appearance nonetheless, mutters "британской вредитель" under his breath as he shuffles back to his work bench, as close to an endearment as any of his customers is likely to get.

Holt wonders, idly, what he called Jackal.

He sips at the espresso, bestows upon Holt the grimace that serves him as a smile. "So, what can I do for you today, Gospodin Holt?"

Always straight to business.

"I have some equipment that I would like to have... improved." He pulls out the devices, lays them on the table, directly under the magnifying lamp. "The basic design is sound, but they will be going into an environment which will be swept on a regular basis, perhaps even daily, with the best detection devices available. Considering this, the data transmission mechanism needs work."

The man's hands are working nimbly over the equipment with a speed and precision that belies their apparent years. He already has one device disassembled before Holt is even done speaking.

He's humming. This is a good sign.

"Is good work. I can do something with this." The man looks up. "You come back tomorrow. Bring coffee."

Holt nods, then adds "Need a destruct mechanism, too."

The old man clucks distractedly, makes shooing motions toward the door.

Holt waits until the door closes behind him to smile.

* * *

><p>Benta's funeral home takes up the ground floor of several adjoining six-story brick buildings on St Nicholas Ave, just south of West 141st on the north end of the island. They luck out and there's parking just south of the main entrance beyond the loading zone. Castle hands three twenties to the cabbie and asks him to wait.<p>

Once inside, he quickly locates the director, asks who handled arrangements for the services for the singer, Betsy Sinclair. The director graciously hands him off to an assistant, a tall, somewhat gangly young black man whom he introduces as "PJ Wilson." PJ greets Castle with a warm but appropriately low-wattage smile.

"How can I help you, Mr...?"

"I'm Rick Castle. Do you have a few minutes to answer some questions?"

"Of course, Mr. Castle. This has something to do with Ms. Sinclair's funeral? That was several weeks ago."

"I'm interested in one of the guests at the service, a man named Stan Banks. Here's a photo of him..." he produces a small copy of Stan's DMV photo from his inside jacket pocket, "do you recognize him?"

"Oh yes, I do. He arrived fairly late, and I noticed him leafing through the guest book after he signed it. It caught my attention, and I asked if he was looking for anyone in particular."

"And... was he?"

"Not that he mentioned when I asked. Still..." He scratches behind his left ear. "I noticed that he spent a lot of time talking to one elderly gentleman."

Castle perks up at this. "Do you remember who it was?"

"His name was... Jerry, I think. Don't recall the last name. Hold on a moment." He retreats from the room.

Just as he passes through the door, Castle's burner phone buzzes, startling the crap out of him.

He draws the phone out, checks the screen and recognizes Pierce's number.

"Pierce?"

"Hey, Rick."

"How the hell did you know which number to call?"

"What, you think I can't do math?" Pierce chuckles. "Maybe you shouldn't be doing just a simple rotation of all 11 phones, Rick. Mix it up a little, randomize things."

Castle grimaces. "Too much of a creature of habit, I suppose."

"If it makes you feel any better, it took me three tries to get the right one. I think maybe you forgot to switch phones once or twice recently."

"Could be. I was a little distracted with other things for the last few days." He sees PJ returning with a guest book. "Listen, I'm in the middle of something, can I call you back in a few minutes?"

"Sure."

He hangs up just as PJ retakes his seat. "There's only one Jerry on the guest list, his last name is Maddox." He holds out the guest book for Castle to inspect. When Rick takes it, PJ reaches into his coat pocket and draws out a slip of paper. "I've copied down his address for you."

Rick nods absently as he takes the proffered slip of paper, his attention on Jerry's entry in the book. The only notation under "Relationship to the Deceased" is "Co-worker."

"It says here that Jerry was a co-worker. Do you know where and when they worked together?"

"Sorry, but I never had the opportunity to ask him."

"Do you recall any of the other folks here talking to Mr. Maddox?"

"I think Theresa probably chatted him up. She was here that day, and she loves listening to the old-timers' stories. Let me get her."

"Thank you, Mr. Wilson."

"You're welcome, Mr. Castle. And please: call me PJ."

"Sure thing, PJ." Just as the man reaches the door, Rick calls after him: "By the way, what does the PJ stand for?"

The man gives him a lopsided smile, shakes his head. "Perseus Joshua."

Castle favors him with a slightly awed whistle. "That must have been a fun name to grow up with."

"Mother was a classics professor."

"Might've guessed."

Castle debates calling Pierce back again, but he suspects PJ will be back quickly. Instead, he does a quick voice search for Jerry Maddox' number, finds that it's listed and saves it in his phone. He's just dropping the phone back into his pocket when PJ returns with Theresa; he points her toward Rick, then smiles and disappears back through the door.

Theresa shakes his hand briskly, "Theresa Vargas. PJ said you had a question about Mr. Maddox, from Ms. Sinclair's service?"

"Yes, his entry in the guest book says they were co-workers, but nothing else. Did he mention how they knew each other?"

"Oh, yes, he had nothing but kind words for her. Her bio said she was a nightclub singer from the mid 30s through the late 60s. I asked Jerry if he'd ever heard her perform and he said yes, she had an absolutely amazing voice, and that they worked at the same nightclub for a few years after World War II."

Castle can hardly believe his luck. "The Pennybaker?"

"Yes, yes, that was the place. He said he was a bartender there. Oh, he had so many great stories."

_I hope so._ "Theresa, thank you very much for the information." He stands up, straightens his jacket.

"Not at all, Mr. Castle. Could I ask a favor?"

He smiles, nods. "Of course."

"I have my old copy of Storm Season in the break room. Could you..."

He smiles again. "Absolutely. Go grab it; I'll meet you at the front door."

* * *

><p>The cab is still waiting when he returns. Castle slides into the back seat, takes out the burner phone. When the cabbie looks back over his shoulder, Castle nods, says "12th Precinct, please." At the man's questioning look, Castle adds: "On East 5th street, between 1st and 2nd."<p>

Three seconds later, they're heading south on St. Nicholas. Traffic is light and they're making good time; still, Castle waits until they get onto FDR Drive before he unlocks the phone and dials Pierce.

"Hey, Rick."

He glances at the cabbie, realizes that working with Pierce the past year has made him more than a little paranoid. He doesn't try to fight it, though; he just keeps his end of the conversation deliberately vague. "OK, I'm back. I'm guessing you had something important to tell me, or you would've just emailed."

"It's about Moss." He hears Pierce take a sip of something, probably coffee. "He made another pilgrimage this morning."

"And?"

"He took the elevator to the 7th floor. He turned right off the elevator, then left at the second cross-corridor. The cameras are set up to provide a view down each corridor from both ends, so they don't have a direct view of most of the doors along the corridors, which means we can't actually _see_ the door he went into."

"Do I need to go down there, check it myself?"

"No, no, Rick, we have the floor plan. It looks like he turned into the 3rd office door on the right, which would have been an office suite on the East side of the building. Based on the floor plan, it appears he visited the offices of a company called Phaedra Holdings."

"Never heard of them. Have you found anything, yet?"

"As you might guess from the name, they are just a holding company, but believe me, they have their fingers in a lot of different pies. Based on their own website and some public records, I've already managed to identify more than 20 companies they own. Most of them look pretty innocuous, but two of them caught my eye."

"Hold on a sec." He pulls out his notepad and pencil. "OK, hit me with it."

"The first one is a public relations firm called Suada. They appear to provide consulting services to celebrities, high-end corporations, and... politicians. I don't see either of our guys' names on the list of their clients, but they could still be working for one of them on the sly."

"OK, we can look into that more, later. What about the other one?"

"That's where it gets a little spooky. The other one is an outfit called Arantis Solutions."

"Why? What do they do?"

"They're sort of like a Blackwater, but on a much smaller scale; lots of ex-military people, and they provide security services, apparently up to and including black ops type work."

Castle momentarily grits his teeth at a recent memory. Lip reading isn't even close to perfect, by any means, even for people who do it all the time. For a hearing person, though, Castle had a lot of practice during his years of watching Martha's rehearsals.

Stage acting requires deliberate use of grand, exaggerated gestures and expressions that can be perceived by audience members far from the stage. That extends, almost unconsciously, to movement of the lips and other facial muscles during speech. Castle has often thought that he would probably peg the meter on a McGurk effect test.

He's not as good as a deaf person who does it constantly, of course; still, some visemes are easier to map to their corresponding phonemes than others, and he's almost positive that he saw Moss telling Jordan Norris both "keep your mouth shut" and "nowhere you can hide from us."

"Yeah, kinda makes his words to Norris carry a little more weight, doesn't it?"

"That it does, Rick." He pauses for another sip of whatever he's drinking, then continues. "I'll keep digging into them, write up everything I find, and email it to you."

"Thanks. Getting close to the station, now. I'll be in touch later tonight."

Two minutes later, they are in front of the 12th. Castle drops another pair of twenties on the driver, hops out.

He finds Kate and Javi in the bullpen, discussing "Westside Wally."

"Unis finally tracked down Westside Wally; they're bringing him in now."

Beckett looks happy; "Great. Maybe that can shed some light as to what happened to Stan."

Castle decides to announce his presence with a flourish. "And if he can't, maybe Jerry Maddox can."

The expression on Kate's face is worth every minute of the trip; that happily puzzled smile is a thing of utter beauty.

"Jerry Maddox?"

"You remember how Tom the Third told us that Stan went to Betsy Sinclair's funeral? I started thinking: why would he go?"


	20. Chapter 20

This one is for Castlereader, who definitely earned it.

**A/N:**_ This chapter turned out to be a really weird mix of easy and hard to write. I've had the last three sections and the first two written for almost two months. Heck, I've had the last three sections written since before I finished chapter 19. It's all the stuff in the middle I just couldn't quite seem to get a handle on. I'm still not sure if I'm happy with it, but I guess we'll just have to see what you all think. Reviews would be awesome; just sayin'._

**Disclaimer:** Not my world, just my words.

* * *

><p>My God, it takes an ocean of trust<br>Takes an effort, it does  
>My God, it takes an ocean of trust<br>It's in the Kingdom of Rust...  
>- Doves, Kingdom of Rust<p>

* * *

><p>Christ, this guy gives him a chill. Yeah, he's cuffed, and they're safe in the box with a table between them and him, but it's taking a lot more effort than normal for Castle to maintain a nonchalant, confident facade. Because a facade is all it is; Thomas Gage just flat gives him the <em>creeps<em>. He's got to be the scariest perp they've had in here since Marcus Gates. Or maybe Roland D'Andre.

Castle can feel his hands sweating, flexes them briefly and puts them under the table to wipe them discreetly on his pants legs, before returning them, folded, to the table in front of him.

"Everything that you have on me, or you _think_ you have? It's all going away. And we're done here."

For the first time ever, he feels like _warning_ LT to be careful as they pass him on their way out of the box. Wants to tell him not to give this guy even a fraction of an opportunity to pull anything on the way to holding.

He knows LT too well to do it, though, fears it might be taken as questioning the man's professionalism. He knows LT is always, always careful. Why else would he have entrusted Kate's safety to the man in the hospital?

So he grits his teeth and holds his tongue until they get into the observation room.

* * *

><p>It doesn't really hit him until later that night, when the station has been locked down and they're stuck upstairs, resisting the urge to drink <em>just one more<em> coffee.

His daughter was _right there_. She could have run into whoever took the body from the morgue.

The thought almost makes his blood freeze in his veins. He clenches his fists and forces himself to breathe through it, breathe through the incipient panic. She's OK, his little girl is OK. Lanie said she left for home almost an hour before the lockdown.

He resists the urge to call her, check up. Not cool dad behavior.

Instead, he steps out to the stairwell and takes out the burner. If he's stuck here with no web access, he can at least get a verbal update from Pierce, something to distract him from imagining worst-case scenarios involving his only child.

The only word from Holt in the past two weeks came four days ago, a simple email notification that he had returned to the country and work was in progress. But Pierce has been busier, and information has been incoming from several fronts.

"Pierce here."

"Hey, it's me."

"Rick! Damn, I'm glad you called. Where are you?"

"I'm at the 12th. Place is locked down right now..."

"What? Locked down? Why?"

"We had an escape earlier today, and nobody is allowed in or out until they've cleared the building. Why, what's up?"

"We're in business, that's what's up. Your guy planted the first set. We just started getting data from transmitter number two, about an hour and a half ago."

"Anything useful, yet?"

"No, just some random noise and chatter, including what sounds like someone running a vacuum cleaner. No phone or computer traffic at all, yet; just ambient. I haven't even figured out whose house or office it's coming from. Which reminds me..."

"What?"

"I need some way to get information to and from this guy more directly. We need a little better coordination on this, and if we have to go through you, wires could get crossed. I've set up a separate throwaway address specifically for him to contact me. Can you get it to him?"

"Of course. I'll ask him to set up a separate secure channel for you, too. I can get you his public encryption key, unless he decides to use a different one for his communications with you."

"Good. So, that covers _that_. Next item: I think we've now tracked down pretty much everyone who worked at Sterling in the early 90s. All but one of the leads we've gotten have panned out nicely; there's one guy who's now dead."

As Pierce probably expected, Rick has to ask: "Anything suspicious about the death?"

"No, he died of natural causes, 'after a prolonged illness,' as they often say in the obits. I double-checked, just to be sure. It was ALS."

"Lou Gehrig's disease?"

"Yep. Most people who get it don't last more than 4 or 5 years. This guy apparently held on for almost 8."

"He must have been a real fighter."

"Yeah." They both pause for a moment, before Pierce continues, "We need to start thinking about how we're going to, well, _exploit_ those contacts."

"I don't really want to move on it until we have strong reason to believe that Gossard is our guy. If he bought someone at Sterling, they may have stayed bought."

"And, if we start sniffing around, they may panic and warn him."

"Yes. We could tip our hand if we pursue that too soon." Castle looks back at the door to the stairwell. He's been gone a while. Someone may come looking for him soon. "OK, anything else?"

"No, still digging into Phaedra, Arantis, and Suada; nothing to report on yet."

"All right, then, I need to get back to the team here before someone comes looking for me. I'll call or email once I get home."

* * *

><p>It doesn't make <em>sense!<em> He pulls furiously on the pistol but somehow it's jammed, hooked on something, which doesn't make _sense_. She carries a Glock; there's no exposed hammer, nothing to hook on, how can it be snagged?

He twists his hand back and forth, yanking harder and harder to free the gun from under the seat, desperately squelching the rising panic. Beckett's forward from him in the car, it's filling fast and she may already be under water.

He glances upward, sees a shimmery, mirror-like reflection of light from the flashlight off the underside of an air pocket near the back window.

_Oh, God. She's under._

The thought fills him with an almost berserker-like burst of fury - _NOT LIKE THIS, NOT LIKE THIS_ - he whips his arm viciously left and right and feels something give, and suddenly, miraculously, the gun comes free.

He feels forward, catches her hand (_limp, ohgodohgodohgod, she's not moving_) and then reaches down, finds the the buckle mechanism, the belt just above it, jams the muzzle right up against the belt and pulls the trigger. He feels the belt jerk but not give way, feels the hole left by the bullet and jams the muzzle against the remaining scrap of belt, pulls the trigger again.

The belt snaps and pulls loose from his grip, and he immediately reaches forward and up, grabs her by the shoulder; she floats loose from her seat, limp (_not moving not moving not moving_) and he circles his arm around her waist and pulls her back through the gap between the front seats into the back seat.

He grabs her by the back of her head, gripping her hair panic-tight and pushing her face up and into the air pocket, hoping against hope that she might draw a breath or two, even as he noses forward into the pocket himself. There are about 5 inches worth of air left; he takes several fast breaths, knowing it's going to be a hard swim to the surface.

Harder still, having to drag her up with him. He takes a fast look, and her face is slack and pale, unconscious, not breathing. He rips his sodden coat loose, the only dead weight he can drop quickly, discarding the $2000 garment without a thought. Then he takes a desperate grip on Kate's belt, pulls back from the window, and starts firing. It takes four rounds before the window blows out, the last of the air leaving the car and sucking them both out with it.

He holds tight to her belt as the current whips them violently upward and out, jams the Glock into his belt and then uses his now-free hand to grip her by the collar, starts stroking hard toward the surface. Thank God it's light enough that he can see the surface, far above them but he knows he's going in the right direction.

He can see the last bubbles of air from the car rising past, confirmation that he's going the right way. The surface is so far, infinitely distant and he can feel his lungs straining already, adrenaline and exertion burning up oxygen in his system rapidly.

He ignores the fierce pain in his lungs and continues kicking upward, upward, upward. All his strength is brought to bear on two imperatives: reach the surface and don't let go of Kate. His vision starts to tunnel and he thinks for one terrifying moment that he won't be able to make it, the weakness of his body will betray him, betray _them_, and he grips her collar even tighter; if it's a choice between the surface and her, he chooses her, will always choose her.

Then they burst through into the open air, he blows out stale air and drags in oxygen, sweet breath of life, one breath, two, three, and the world comes back into focus again.

He rolls Kate's head and neck up and onto his shoulder as he continues to kick furiously, keeping them both afloat and getting her face above water. She doesn't breathe, doesn't stir, and he wonders how much water she's sucked into her lungs already.

He knows that time is of the essence, every second without oxygen increases the risk, and with that thought he turns toward her, pinches her nose shut and blows two hard breaths into her mouth, then a third. He can feel the air going in, down her lungs, so he knows she hasn't filled them with water.

He blows in a fourth breath before looking around and spotting the pier, _a pier_, anyway, only 20 or 30 yards away, and he takes a grip on her hair at the crown of her head and starts sidestroking powerfully toward it, looking backward with each stroke to be sure he's keeping her face clear of the water. The current of the river isn't strong here, they won't be swept past the pier, but he swims like a maniac anyway.

His arms are screaming and even his legs are starting to tire when he takes one last stroke and slams into one of the pilings, moving faster than he thought; he loops his free hand around the wood, gripping hard and bringing Beckett up against him. He loops a leg around the piling as well, frees his hand to grip her again, pinching her nose shut and blowing several more breaths into her.

The piling upstream of him has a series of hand-holds drilled into it that he could use to haul himself upward, but only if he didn't have an unconscious partner to deal with as well. He casts about quickly, spots another small dock, low to the water, about another 20 yards downstream. He might be able to just climb up onto that one, haul Beckett up behind him.

He blows several more breaths into her, then shakes himself loose of the piling and starts swimming frantically toward the low dock. He reaches it in less than a minute, flails up with his hand and grabs hold. Looking underneath, he can see a ladder on the far side of the dock and immediately starts hauling himself and Beckett around, kicking hard and pulling himself along by hand.

He can't remember ever feeling more relieved than he does when he grabs hold of the first rung and feels it solid and unyielding in his grip. Three more hard breaths into his partner and he starts climbing. He rolls up and over onto the dock, one hand dangling over the edge to hold onto Beckett's collar, her body still three-quarters submerged. He struggles up to his knees, gets a grip on her collar with his other hand and hauls her bodily up and onto the dock.

He's on her in a flash, feeling her neck for a pulse, his ear against her chest. Her heart is still beating, miraculous; nicked by a bullet less than a year ago and _still_ it beats. She has the heart of an ox, the heart of a _Titan_.

He gets her flat on her back and starts blowing air into her lungs in earnest. He has to force himself to count, remembering eight to ten breaths per minute, six to eight seconds between breaths.

After about 20 breaths, he pulls back and checks his pockets for his phone, her pockets for hers, finds nothing. He shouts for help, prays that someone nearby will hear him; he gets into a rhythm: three breaths, call for help; three breaths, call for help.

He's been at it for five minutes when he hears someone calling down from the dock above. "Hello? Is someone there?"

_Thank God, thank you God._

"We need help down here! Call 911, I've got a police officer down, tell them we've got a drowning victim!"

"Got it, hang on, calling now!"

He immediately goes back to work, blowing air into her with renewed vigor.

"Good news, buddy, they're on the way, they said about 10 minutes!" He can hear footsteps retreating and starts to panic.

"Where are you _going!?_"

"Coming down to help, don't lose it, I'll be down there in just a minute."

He forces himself to calm down, checks her again for a pulse, finds her heart still beating. He goes back to breathing for her, praying for a response, any response.

He hears their savior approaching, heavy boots clomping along the dock at a jogging pace, and he's about to raise his head to look when Beckett suddenly convulses under his hands, her head snapping up and catching him squarely in the mouth.

He rears backward reflexively before reaching forward and gripping her by the shoulders, rolling her onto her side as she starts coughing and choking, river water flowing out of her mouth onto the worn ancient boards of the dock. She thrashes frantically and he almost loses his grip before another pair of hands land on her waist and hips, holding her down.

"Holy shit, caught a marlin once, thrashed just like this when we pulled it into the boat."

Castle gets the image in his head, the big fish superimposed over Beckett; he feels a sudden hysterical urge to laugh at the thought, feels the urge die just as quickly when her eyes snap open and she reaches out for him blindly, her hands gripping in his shirt, her nails digging into his skin. The pain is incredible, galvanizing; he grabs her wrists and pulls her hands loose, holds her by the wrists as she convulses again, one last series of horrible, hacking coughs bringing up the last of the water.

Then she's gasping, hauling in huge panicked breaths on her own, punctuated by more coughing, and her entire body starts shivering violently as she curls onto her side. She reaches out to him again, her hand scrabbling along his leg until he catches it in both of his and holds on tight.

"You're OK, Kate, you're OK. Help is on the way, just breathe, keep breathing."

"Castle... Castle..." Her eyes find his and he sees something in them he immediately wants to forget, some terrible knowledge that he doesn't want to hold. "Castle..."

"Just breathe, Kate, save your strength and breathe."

He looks again and it's _her_, thank God, it's just her, cold and afraid but alive and _Kate_ again. He pulls her into his arms and tries to give her his warmth, the sound of distant sirens reaching his ears.

* * *

><p>She sits alone in her living room, nursing her second glass of scotch, the remains of the Chinese takeout cold on the table already.<p>

She just wants to be able to shut her brain down, get some badly needed sleep before the coming day, and forget how she closed out this one.

How she's been a colossal, idiotic, immature _bitch_.

The entire second half of her day has felt like one long out-of-body experience, hovering apart from herself and watching in bewildered horror as she sniped and snapped and abused the man who just saved her life.

What... the... FUCK?

She _swears_ Sophia knew what she was doing, that those final words were directed as much at her as at Castle, slipping a knife between her ribs and twisting.

_Yes, I was there first. I was his muse before you, I took him into my bed, I made him a notch on my lipstick case._

She wasn't even out of college when Sophia was putting her brand on Castle, the man she...

Shit. She can't even say it in her own head. Curses herself for a coward for the thousandth time.

She grabs the bottle, pours another healthy dose into the glass.

She thinks about running a bath, but that just brings a flurry of images, of wine and candles and a (his) book and it's all she can do not to hurl the glass across the room at the thought that Sophia has ruined that, even _that_.

So instead she swallows down the last of the scotch, hot and harsh in her throat, spins the glass across the table until it clinks against the bottle. She hauls herself to her feet and trudges down the hall, unbuttoning her shirt as she goes.

She knows she's just going to toss and turn most of the night, but she's too tired to put it off any longer.

She has to make it up to him somehow, but she has no idea how.

* * *

><p>It happens so fast; he's just starting to get that <em>something isn't right<em> feeling and suddenly everything flips upside-down. Sophia with her sidearm out, Agent Corrigan plucking Kate's Glock out of her hands, giving him a weapon to hold on each of them. He gauges the distance to the man, realizes there's no way he can reach him quickly enough.

Then they catch a break; she sends Corrigan after the girl. That leaves one person and one weapon to deal with. His mind races, but he can barely wrap his head around it, can't believe it's happening; _Sophia Turner?_

Then Sophia trains her weapon on Beckett, and he can almost _see_ the switches flipping in her mind, dismissing him as a threat, focusing on Kate. He feels a mantle of coldness settle over him, like snow on his shoulders and back. The adrenaline is fizzing in his blood and his brain starts revving up, thoughts moving quickly. He remembers that, just like Scott Dunn, Sophia's weakness is pride; it's not enough that she's smart, she wants you to _know_ it.

_Keep her talking._

"It was you this whole time?"

"I'm afraid so." Oh, yes, there it is: the smarmy condescension. _Always the smartest person in the room, eh, Sophia?_

"Then why bring us here? Why not just leave us at the facility?"

She looks at him like he's dense, like she can't believe he doesn't understand; she shifts her aim to him. "Because you just... don't... _stop_. You need to know the story, the _whole story_. If something doesn't add up you just don't let go." She shakes her head. "Why do you think I brought you inside? I was protecting the op!"

Beckett speaks then, contempt heavy in her voice. "Like you were trying to protect the operation when you killed Blakely and McGrath?" She shifts slightly, widening her stance a touch.

He feels a burst of panic. _Don't try it, Kate. She's too far away._ He speaks quickly, trying to get Sophia's focus back on him, the first thing that comes into his head. "_You_ set up Gage."

"For the linchpin to work, the Chinese have to blame the US government. The operation _has_ to trace back to the CIA."

"And when you needed to cover your tracks, you killed them. So then you needed someone else. You needed Danberg." It all comes together, the picture - the story - now clear. "_Sophia_. World War III? _Why?_"

"Let's just say there are certain parties who will pay _anything_ to reshape the world."

She moves around behind them, giving Beckett a prudent berth, her weapon never wavering from the detective.

"I don't buy it. The Sophia I know wouldn't sell out her country. Not for money, not for _anything_."

She laughs, hollow and vicious and cold. "Well, that's one thing you got wrong, Rick. Это не моей стране; никогда не было!"

"On your knees, both of you." She moves in close to Beckett, kicks her in the back of the left knee to drop her, training the gun on her back as she falls.

Rick sees the gun pointing at Kate and the fury finally boils over inside at this traitorous bitch, fury at yet another betrayal, another threat to the woman he loves.

He turns to face Sophia, raises his hands and takes a step toward her. "Go to hell. You want to shoot me, you look me in the eye and do it."

Her eyes narrow as she regards him, incredulous, "You don't think I'll do it?" She levels the gun at his chest. "I know you're not that stupid, so I guess it's just your usual foolhardy courage." She sneers, _sneers_ at him. "Your father would be so _proud_."

He mentally stumbles for a fraction of a second before he steels himself, hammers the emotion down. _Bullshit mind game._ He calls upon every last shred of his inner Martha Rodgers and drops his mouth open, lets his eyes widen in shock. "My father?" _Come on, Sophia, you started the game, let's see you finish it._

"You don't think you got that kind of access to the CIA with nothing but your charm, do you?"

He edges a few more inches toward her, drawing her attention away from his creeping feet and toward his face by slumping his shoulders and turning his head down and to the side, furrowing his brows as if considering what she's told him, then turning his face back up to hers with a bewildered expression. _Just a few more inches..._

She gives him a cold smile, cocks her head as if she's just been granted a minor revelation. "You _really_ don't know, do you?" She chuckles grimly and spits out "I guess you never will" as she raises the gun to his face, steps forward and extends her arm.

_Thanks, **BITCH**._

He ducks his head to the left, so hard and fast that his vertebrae pop; his hands blur inward and he catches her gun hand with his left, slams her brutally on the forearm just above the wrist with his right, feeling one of the bones in her forearm snap. The gun goes off, bullet flying wild over his right shoulder.

Kate screams "NO!" and lurches upward, but before she even gains her feet, it's over; he yanks Sophia toward him by her now-broken arm, and the gun drops from her nerveless hand. Her shriek of agony is cut short as he lunges in and to the left, his right hand comes up and over, and he clotheslines her viciously with his right forearm. She drops like a sack of meal, overtaking the gun in her fall to the concrete floor, slamming flat on her back. Out cold - or possibly dead.

His right ear is ringing from the gunshot; he drops to one knee and scoops up the weapon, quickly reverses grip on it and points it at Sophia. No, not dead, her chest continues to rise and fall.

"Cuff her, Beckett." He looks up, sees Kate gawping at him, open-mouthed with shock. "Damn it, Beckett, snap out of it and _cuff_ her. _We have to stop Corrigan!_"

"Christ, it really _was_ Sophia." They both startle at the voice, Castle whipping up the pistol to point at the new arrival, barely a hairsbreadth from squeezing off a round at him before he recognizes Danberg. The man's eyes widen and he recoils, his gun hand up and his empty hand open toward them, shouts "Whoa! I come in peace!"

_The cavalry arrives?_

Beckett shakes off her paralysis, quickly draws out her cuffs, then stoops down and rolls Sophia onto her stomach. She pulls the woman's hands behind her and snaps on the cuffs, cinching them solid, but not too tight. Her right wrist is already starting to swell up alarmingly, and she wonders absently if the broken bone may have opened an artery inside. She can't bring herself to care.

When she stands and turns toward Castle, he's already holding the pistol out to her, grip first. "Take it. Let's go."

Danberg moves toward the exit through which Agent Corrigan disappeared. "Come on, come on, we're all out of time!"

She draws out her phone as they move, calls Espo and tells him to send a bus to her current location. When he tries to draw her out, she cuts him off, "Just GPS my phone, Espo," and drops it into her pocket.

* * *

><p>How could he have forgotten how <em>fast<em> she is? Despite all the training, the cardio and running, he just can't keep up. She runs like a damn _deer_. Even Danberg is starting to fall behind.

They both manage to make up the distance when she hits the stairway door, and the three of them turn right, together, into a hallway. The sounds echoing down the hall suggest they've reached the lobby area.

They exit the hallway, turning right again, and there he is: Agent Corrigan, moving away from them toward the main entryway. The purpose in his stride makes it obvious he has acquired his target. He sees the agent drawing his weapon and tries to force more speed into his limbs.

Astonishingly, Beckett puts on a burst of even greater speed, pulling away from them as Corrigan stops and raises the weapon.

He never sees her coming, too focused on making the shot to spare any awareness for anything else.

She is running full-tilt when she slams into him, hitting him high on his right side and going down on top of him.

Danberg is only a few steps behind and before Castle can even blink, he is down on top of Corrigan as well, yanking his free left arm into a hammerlock and helping Kate haul him to his feet.

Castle scans the hallway wildly, spots the young girl in white with her mother's arm around her shoulders, not a dozen paces away; the woman is looking over her shoulder, curious but apparently unconcerned. After a mere second or two, they both turn away and follow the rest of their entourage down the hall. Alive and unharmed.

_Disaster averted_. He wants to find a bathroom and puke.

* * *

><p>They've been driving for 10 minutes in a pregnant silence when Castle finally speaks. "What did she say?"<p>

She spares him only a quick glance; traffic is tight and she's still shaky with residual adrenaline, doesn't want to risk an accident. _What did she say?_ She's having trouble tracking; somehow she lost the context. "What? When?"

"Soph - the _traitress_. Whatever her _real_ name is. You speak Russian; what did she say?"

She can't remember the last time he sounded like this, so bewildered and lost. Was it after Tyson escaped, leaving him alive to stew in his own failure? No, not even then. "She said..."

But then she can't continue. The light ahead turns yellow, and she could make it but chooses to stop instead. She takes the opportunity to look more closely, and it's there, all over his face: how it eats him. The crowning, epic misjudgment in a lifetime of misjudgments.

He gazes back at her, sees the hesitance. "It's OK, Beckett." He gives her a wry smile. "I've already hit bottom; can't hurt me any more."

_He loves me. I can never, ever forget that._

And maybe he once loved Sophia, maybe he didn't; but if he did, what did it get him? It almost... wrecks her; she could just _weep_ for him, and somehow he finds a smile for her. He can _always_ find a smile for her, even when she doesn't deserve it. _Especially_ when she doesn't deserve it. She swallows, finds some reserve of emotional control and manages to keep her voice steady. "Sophia said: 'This isn't my country; it never was.'"

_He **loves** me. Oh, God, please don't let that be another mistake._

She watches the muscles in his jaw flex, the hard swallow as he chokes down some horrible emotion. He turns his head forward, looks out the windshield. _I guess you were wrong, Rick. Still some pain left in that well._

After a few seconds, he speaks again. "I try to imagine the level of... _duplicity_ that would take. To live in that lie, 24x7, year in and year out. To never develop an _iota_ of loyalty to your adopted country, even after your own country had ceased to exist; even after _20 years,_ she never..." He shakes his head. "The mind just... quails."

She reaches out, touches his arm; it's all she can trust herself to do. She wants to just pull over, fold him into her arms. But she's afraid that if she does that now, she'll never be able to let go. Instead she sighs, tells him, "Sociopathy isn't a mindset you want to try to understand, Castle."

"Oh no, Beckett; no no no. She's not a sociopath. Sociopaths would make _terrible_ agents because they have absolutely no loyalty, none; the concept is entirely alien to them, and they are out for _number one,_ first, last and always." He looks back at her. "It almost might be better if she _was,_ though."

"How is that?" The light changes and she has to turn her attention forward again, checking 10 and 2, pulling through the intersection.

He turns his head away from her, stares vacantly out the front windshield. "Because, Beckett, the alternative is hatred: a hatred so intense that I can barely conceive of it. She hated this country _so much_ that even after her own country had been dead 20 years, she was willing to lie and conspire and murder to destroy it."

He snorts derisively, and she sees him trying to smile again but failing, which means the derision is directed at himself. "And I never had a clue. Almost a year following her around, studying her, even _sleeping_ with her at the end, and I had no idea anything was wrong. And it almost got us both killed. I almost got _you_ killed. Again."

Oh, _fuck_. That _does_ it. She flips on the gumball, hits the gas and speeds down the street, looking for a space, a loading zone, _anything_.

"Beckett, what are you -"

"You SHUT UP!" She bellows at him, desperately covering the sorrow and shame and heartbreak with anger.

He blinks at that and clams right up; that tone brooks _no_ argument.

She spots a space 50 yards up, changes lanes with barely a glance over her shoulder. Ten seconds later, they're parked; she switches off the lights, kills the engine. Then she just has to sit for a moment, compose herself, not looking at him.

"Don't you do that, Castle. Don't you DARE." She grits her teeth and grips the wheel, the tendons in her wrists like cables under the skin. "The entire CIA was clueless, Castle. For more than 20 years she fooled them all, even with background checks and drug screens and regular fucking _polygraph_ tests, she fooled them. Compared to them, you barely _knew_ her, Castle. She put up the same front for you that she did for all of them."

To his credit, he takes it; she can see him out of the corner of her eye, watching her, taking it in.

"You're good, Castle, but you're not _that_ good. _Nobody_ is that good." She breathes in, breathes out; feels her pulse starting to drop back toward normal. She thinks, distantly, that dumping this much adrenaline into your system in the space of a few hours _can't_ be good for you.

"You didn't _almost get me killed_, Castle. Sophia _almost killed me._ What you did was _save my life,_ twice in three days. Hell, if Blakely was right, you saved us _all_." Breathe in, breath out. Finally, she feels like she has herself under control well enough to look at him again. "Also, what is this 'again' shit, Rick?"

His mouth opens, and she can actually _see_ him making the decision to censor himself, his mouth snapping shut again. He shrugs, morose and contrite and a little bit petulant.

_Oh no, buddy. You don't get to drop that bombshell and then shrug it off._ "Start talking, Castle. Start talking, or I swear to _God_ I will get Kevin and Javi to drag you down to the polygraph lab and strap your sorry ass in, and _then_ you can talk."

Now it's his turn to look away. "How many times have we cheated the guy with the scythe since I walked into the 12th, Beckett?"

"So many that I've lost _count_. But they were all in the line of duty, Castle. _You_ didn't drag me into _anything_. I'm a big girl and I make my own decisions." She reaches out, grabs his lapel and gives him a brisk shake. "I want you to _drop_ that garbage! You're my partner, and I _refuse_ to let you drag that weight around!"

"Even..." He trails off, doesn't continue.

"Even what? My mother's case?" What _is_ it with him and that case these days? He's like a first-year at Hogwarts, trying to talk around the subject of he-who-must-not-be-named, or something. Ever since she came back to the precinct... "Do you... do you think I still blame you for that? That I hold it against you in any way? Were you _not there_ after I shot Coonan? Because I remember you being there, and I never thought I'd have to repeat myself."

"I know, but still... I'm the one who dug it up, got the ball rolling."

"Bullshit. I put it right back down again, Castle; I didn't _touch_ it until the Coonan case. And I _forgave_ you. You came into the precinct that night with your hat in your hand and you apologized, and I forgave you. That's an _end_ to it." She looks back out the windshield, returns her hands to the wheel just to give them something to do. Something other than _touching_ him.

Because, oh, does she _want_ to touch him. Touch and hold and... taste... and all those things she only lets herself think about at night when she's alone in the dark. She can't go down that road now, too soon, still too... She'll screw it up, she _knows_ she will, there's way too much at stake and she'll panic, she'll freak out and fuck things up.

She closes her eyes, just a few seconds, and sees the vision that's always lurking there, brilliant sunlight and his eyes (_oh his eyes_) blue against a clear spring sky, and his voice whispering to her as darkness descends. She feels it all drain out of her then, the sadness and fury both, leaving her calm, purged. "I've always wondered..."

"Wondered what?"

"What prompted that. The simple _apology_. You spent all that time calling and texting and sweet-talking me, and it was all about justifying yourself. Never once did you actually say you were _sorry_. I... decided that you just didn't have it in you. And then you surprised me. Why did you come back and do it that night?"

"It was something Alexis said." When he doesn't continue, she gives him the _look_ and raises her eyebrows, motions for him to go on.

"She had a fight with her boyfriend; he screwed up, forgot about their date, and they went back-and-forth over it. She asked me why boys were like that. Why they always had to argue and justify themselves, and why couldn't they just say they're sorry?" A reluctant, lopsided half-grin appears. "And it hit me that I had almost two and a half decades on Owen but I was doing the _exact_ same thing. It was a sobering mirror to look into. You may have noticed I have a problem with ego and pride, Beckett."

She just snorts and nods.

"I couldn't just swallow it and own up to what I'd done, how I'd hurt you. I didn't want to leave the precinct. I didn't want to lose what I had with you and the boys, the feeling of purpose, the rush of solving cases, any of it. But most of all, I didn't want _you_ to think I didn't care that I'd hurt you. Even if I was _still_ out on my ass, I didn't want you... out there somewhere, _believing_ that about me. So... apology."

"OK. Thanks. And it wasn't _you_ that got the ball rolling again, Castle. Again, for the cheap seats: it was the _Coonan case_. You don't have any reason to blame yourself, and I want... you... to... _stop_. We've got enough baggage without that in the mix." She starts the car, checks over her shoulder and pulls back into traffic.

He's quiet for a few seconds, digesting it. "All right."

"You promise? I was serious about the poly, you know."

"Wouldn't doubt you for a _second_. And yes, I promise; pinky-swear, in fact." He holds his hand out to her, little finger extended; she rolls her eyes and links hers with his briefly, and he smiles at her, the first _real_ smile in days. She's honest enough with herself (even if not with him) to know that that's on her.

She's the one who let stupid, petty jealousy get the best of her, let herself be angry with him, and why? Because she wasn't his_ first?_ Because he didn't... _save himself_ for her? What is she, 15? But that's a talk (and an apology) for another day; they've had enough drama for today.

She smiles back, nods. "All right, then. We're good?"

"We're good."

They drive on toward the 12th in silence for a few minutes; Castle keeps his eyes turned out the window, but he looks... lighter. She's glad, and she wonders if he's already back to doing his people-watching thing. She catches him doing it constantly; by now she can almost _hear_ the wheels turning when he's doing it, his boundless imagination running amok, spinning tales about the passers-by. She smiles, then clears her throat. "Just for the record, though..."

He turns back to her, eyes intent and curious. "For the record, what?"

"You _almost_ had me with the pony."


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N:** _Peeks around the corner, wonders if anyone is still paying attention... So, life is a little less crazy than usual and I've picked this ball back up. I've got it almost completely plotted out to the end, and it looks like there are about 6 chapters left to go, maybe 8, depending on how things go as I'm actually putting words in place. I'll take some time later this week to reply to reviews. Once again, many thanks to everyone who's paid attention to this little tale._

**Disclaimer:** Not my world, just my words.

* * *

><p>I want to think the heart is bigger than the head<br>Wanna follow you but not be led

If only for today, I wanna be  
>The girl who got away<br>The lover who really loved  
>The dancer who danced<br>To the last song

- Dido, "The Girl Who Got Away"

* * *

><p>"What do you want to talk about today, Kate?"<p>

"Rick. I want to talk about Rick Castle."

_Finally._ "Good, Kate. I'm pleased."

"I'm not really sure where to start."

"Not to sound pedestrian, why don't you start at the beginning? How did you meet?"

"Oh, the beginning was _long_ before we met. Years."

Burke takes a sip of water, sets the glass aside. He settles back into his seat and steeples his fingers, gives her the raised eyebrow. "Tell me."

"He was one of my mother's favorite authors. I didn't really start reading his books until after... until after. I'd read the first Derrick Storm during 11th grade and loved it - so naturally, I had to _claim_ that I hated it. She wouldn't even need to _say_ 'I told you so,' just give me the damned _look_." She paused, thinking about how to continue. "I was still in my _Becks_ phase, that's just who I was at the time."

"Kate, you _do_ know there's nothing at all unusual about your relationship difficulties at that time? Teenage rebellion is an extremely common mechanism for individuation; it's one of the primary means by which adolescents attempt to define their own identity, distinct from their parents and siblings. Nothing wrong with it, so long as you don't get overtly destructive."

Kate sighs audibly. They've been over that ground before. "Yes, yes, I know. We've talked about that already - at length. I don't have any regrets over that, Mom and Dad handled it pretty well, all things considered, and we were on good terms before I left for Stanford." One of the few lucky breaks she'd had: she and her mother had been solid by then, she had no regrets about unresolved issues between them. _Mom died knowing I loved her, and that I'd be OK._ "She knew I loved her."

"So, then you were free to enjoy those books as much as you liked. When did you start reading them again?"

"I mainly started getting into them the summer after. Dad was... really starting to go downhill, I had just started working on the Criminology degree at NYU. The course load was rough, but I made time for them anyway. There were only a few things that helped me keep my head above water. Castle's books were at the top of the list."

"And why is that?"

That is a question she'd asked herself on many occasions. "There's an underlying sense of optimism in them. And a moral clarity. The good guys are the good guys, the bad guys, bad. Things get wrapped up tight at the end, no loose threads, closure. The bad guys get what's coming to them." She looks up from her clasped hands, sees Burke nodding in agreement. "That was something I desperately needed in my own life, and getting to experience it vicariously was like a lifeline, something to keep me going until I could get it in reality."

She's surprised to feel a tear rolling down her cheek, one she didn't even realize she'd shed. "I didn't expect that to take so long. Good thing he kept writing, huh?"

She pauses briefly, considers how much to share. _In for a penny, in for a pound._ "I even went to a book signing of his once, years ago. He doesn't remember it, thank God. I'd never hear the end of _that_. It was a few weeks after I made detective, maybe... half a year before I met Will."

"And what was your interaction like at that time?"

"I enjoyed it. He was very charming in a sort of effortless way, took time to chat with me, personalize it. He must have been at it for at least three hours by the time I got to the table, but he still spent time with me, didn't make me feel rushed. Made up for a lot of the shenanigans I'd read about on page 6."

"We've already had that discussion, haven't we?"

"Oh, yes. No need to go over it again."

"So, that's an interesting background, suggests that you had a very specific image you'd formed before truly meeting him in person. How would you describe that image?"

"You mean, what I had in my head before I actually met him?"

Burke nods, motions for her to continue.

She takes a moment, tries to honestly answer the question. There _had_ been some fan-girlish elements to it, she had to admit that, even if only to herself. Still, she'd read some pretty spectacularly off-putting stuff about him around the same time.

"I guess... that he was intelligent, probably _very_ intelligent. His books are so intricately plotted, his writing is so... erudite. You always got the sense that he had really put in the effort to know the subject matter in much greater depth than he really needed. Also, that he had a really clear sense of right and wrong, and that he didn't care if people - critics, mostly - called it _old fashioned_ or _quaint_ when he put it out there on the page. But as smart and charming as he was, as much straight-arrow boy scout at heart, it was still a little like one of the rabble-rousers I hung out with in High School had managed to survive until middle age without ever really growing up."

Burke indulges in a rarity: an honest laugh. "And it turned out the hero really had feet of clay?"

"To say the least. He must have paid a bundle to keep some of the really nutty stuff out of the Ledger."

"So how and when _did_ you meet?"

"We caught a few murders in early '09, and I recognized one of his fictional crime scenes. Two of them, actually. The second crime scene was _blatantly_ obvious, and once I made the connection, I remembered the earlier one, put things together. Two murders, staged almost exactly like murders from two different novels. Can you say 'Person Of Interest?'" She flashes a brief, wry smile. "So, I crashed a book party and brought him in for questioning. And when I got a look at his file? Wow. He did some seriously crazy stuff, there."

"Such as?"

"Well, the real highlight was the time he got wasted and stole... err... _borrowed_ a police horse, which he proceeded to ride all over Central Park, Lady Godiva style."

"Minus the long tresses."

"Yeah."

"And how was he in person?"

"Insufferable. He treated the entire interrogation like it was some kind of weird first date. Even asked for copies of the crime scene photos."

"I suppose having a copycat would be a serious coup for a mystery writer."

"He called it the Criminal Cooperstown."

"Oh, boy."

"Yeah, and to make matters worse, he showed up at the precinct the next day offering to 'assist with the investigation.' The fix was already in, I'm sure; must've already gotten his buddy the Mayor to pull those strings. Montgomery was all smiles."

"It sounds like that was particularly galling to you."

"Dammit, Montgomery _respected_ me. He rarely had to give me orders because we were almost always on the same page, anyway. When he did give me orders, they were never arbitrary, just... orders for orders' sake. Never. It was the first time he'd done it and wasn't willing to discuss it at all."

"Are you sure you weren't indulging in a little bit of transference?"

"No, Castle did plenty to earn it. He stomped around in the investigation like a bull in a china shop. Even came in at one point and stole some files from my desk at the precinct. And he..." She trails off, realizes a moment too late that she doesn't really want to talk about it.

"He... what?"

"Nothing. Not important."

"You _must_ realize that when a patient says that, it's usually like firing off a flare."

Beckett grits her teeth, annoyed that Burke is once again dead on target.

"Well, that first morning he came in to the precinct, I might have gotten a little snippier with him than I should have, and he sort of... well, he let me have it."

"How so?"

"He was blathering on about how there's always a story, and then he started talking about how women like me don't become cops, they become lawyers."

"Women like you?"

She pauses, flustered, and then she _blushes_, a no-fooling, full-on, pink-cheeked _blush_. "Yeah, umm... smart and good-looking were his words, I think. It was just that much worse, of course, since that's _exactly_ what I was doing at Stanford, pre-law. He said there had to be some story to explain the fact that I was there, that I was a detective. I took the bait, called him on it." She shakes her head ruefully. "Big mistake."

"Let me guess: he knocked it out of the park, didn't he?"

"Everything except the fact that it was my mom. I know - _now_ - that he didn't mean it that way, but at the time... it made me feel like some kind of sad, pathetic cliche. God, I was _so angry_ at him for it." She can still feel it like it was yesterday, the feeling of nakedness and humiliation, like she was just an open book to him, no mystery at all. _Poor little rich girl..._

"Seems like an inauspicious beginning. How did he dig himself out the hole?"

"He just... kept showing up. And he really was helpful. He always has been, honestly, from day one. I don't mind saying it now, though I would have preferred to chew on ground glass than admit it at the time. Our team's close rate was already very good, but it went up more than 10% after he joined us. Best in the precinct, probably in the top five for the entire city."

"It really doesn't bother you to admit that?"

She pauses to consider it. "No. No, it really doesn't. He just... has a gift. One that's different from mine. He makes these incredible intuitive leaps, sees a big picture that makes things fit together. And let me tell you, he's wrong... a _lot_. But it doesn't phase him at all. He just keeps cranking out the theories, and eventually, one of them turns out to be right. Or, well, right _enough_. Enough that it points us in something like the right direction, and our usual methods can get us the rest of the way."

"Your usual methods? I'm curious."

"I work the timeline, I always have. It's almost always worked for me. You follow the chain of events. If you _know_ that B follows A, and C follows B, then C _must_ follow A - but if something indicates that A follows C instead... that's your odd sock. That's the thing that will lead you to the killer."

"It sounds like you have complementary methods."

"Yes, but it's more than that." She smiles then, wide and honest. It really is a thing of beauty; it lights up her entire face.

Burke can understand how Castle would fall for that. Most men would. He's a little smitten, himself, from time to time.

"Care to elaborate?"

"We just... get things, the same way. Pick up on things the same way. We get on a roll and just... go with it, bouncing it back and forth, even finishing sentences for each other. It's sort of a _thing_, now. The guys give us flak for it all the time, but I don't care. I love it." Her smile fades a little. "I really do love... it."

Time to prod. He just can't resist. "It?"

She looks up at him, chewing her lower lip, eyes suddenly swimming.

"Kate?"

"Him."

* * *

><p>His mind is already racing ahead to the call he'll make to Pierce later that evening, looping over the points they need to discuss, hoping for new word on Holt's endeavors. He barely registers it when Steven stops packing away equipment, turns to watch him as he's stripping off his gloves.<p>

"Got another personal question, Rick."

Castle gives him a wry half-grin, tucking the gloves back in his gym bag. "Why, Steve, that's the second one this _year_. When did you become such a Nosy Nellie?"

He snorts, shakes his head. "Dink. OK, maybe more of an observation than a question."

"That sounds a little ominous. Do I want to hear this?"

"Think you'd be interested."

"Observe away, my friend."

"You've been... different in the past few sessions. _Good_ different, before you ask, but I'm a little curious about the change."

Castle thought back over the lessons of the previous week, couldn't imagine what the instructor might be talking about. "Different... how?"

"It's subtle, but it's something I've learned to look for. I've seen it in some of my other students over the years, and I'm always curious about where it comes from." He zips his bag shut, plops down on the chair next to it. "There's a certain change in demeanor, in the way you've been handling yourself during sparring. First noticed it during the session last Thursday."

"I'm coming up blank. It must be something I'm not really conscious of."

"You might not be. Probably not, in fact. It's like you're more fluid. There are times when you would hesitate before that you don't, now. And, well... let me ask you this: have you heard the term _zanshin_?"

"Sorry, doesn't ring a bell."

"Not surprising. It's a term mainly used by martial artists, and only a small subset of those, the ones who are more interested in the philosophical and spiritual aspects of the arts. My first instructor was heavily into that, had a strong background in classic Aikido. He's the one who first taught me the concept. _Zanshin_ is a Japanese term that translates as 'active mind' or more literally as 'lingering mind.'"

"OK..."

"It denotes a state of mind, of heightened awareness, taking in everything around you. Kyudoka - archers - use the term to refer to the moment after the arrow is released, a mental follow-through and a posture of readiness. It can refer specifically to the state of mind immediately after execution of a technique, a preparedness for counterattack or for a new attack from some other quarter. In a more general sense, it means a constant vigilance and awareness of your surroundings."

"That's interesting, but why bring it up now?"

"I think that you're starting to develop this mindset, maybe spontaneously as a result of our training, or maybe as a result of something else that may have happened to you recently, something that... triggered it. Catalyzed it, something like dropping a seed crystal into a supersaturated solution. Your thoughts?"

Castle takes a moment to really think about it, give it the consideration it deserves. He _has_ noticed a general feeling of... _confidence_ that he has had since the confrontation with Sophia. He's constrained from talking about the details of the case, it's still classified, but nothing stops him from talking about it in the abstract.

"We had a case, recently, where Beckett and I ended up in a tight spot. I went up against an opponent armed with a gun. The opponent was armed, I mean; I wasn't." He pauses, formulating his next words.

Steven takes his hesitation as reluctance. "Obviously you came through it in one piece. You don't need to tell me more if you don't want to."

"It was... over fast. I remember everything very clearly, though. She -"

"She?"

"Yes, it was a woman. Someone I knew, or _thought_ I knew, very well. I can't tell you more details, for reasons I can't really go into."

"OK. Sorry, though, keep going."

"She was overconfident. More concerned with Beckett as a threat than with me. She let me get too close, then she practically shoved the gun in my face. I did a classic high-line disarm, a little sloppy but effective. Didn't bother trying to actually _take_ the gun, just knocked it out of her hand, broke her arm in the process. The disarm was a Krav Maga technique I got from Michael. Followed up with that 'entering throw' that we've practiced, oh, about ten thousand times."

"_Iriminage?_"

"Yeah."

"And that was it?"

"Well, we were on a concrete floor and she went down pretty hard."

"She still alive?"

"As far as I know, yes."

This discussion had gotten a lot heavier than Steven had anticipated, quite unexpectedly. He debates continuing, decides it's important enough to take the risk. "Pretty brutal technique to use on that surface. Did you deliberately choose _not_ to do the disarm and reversal?"

Castle looks at him steadily, weighing his words before replying.

"Rick?"

"Yes. Yes, I did."

Hmmm... interesting. Interesting, and not at all what he would have expected of Rick, given what he knew of the man. "Why?"

"Because I was furious. I didn't just want to turn the tables, give her an opportunity to surrender. I wanted to take her down _hard_, I wanted to _hurt_ her." He feels the unexpected hot sting of nascent tears, a tightness in his throat. "She took advantage of my trust, tried to kill me, to kill Kate. She _betrayed_ me, and I wanted to _punish_ her for it."

"Not judging you for it, Rick. Not for a _second_. Emotions can run high in combat, and you were clearly under lethal threat. You should not feel ashamed of doing whatever you felt was necessary to protect yourself and the detective."

"I know, I know. And I don't, really."

"We've already had _the talk_, but this feels like a good time to reiterate. The most important thing is not training, it's not technique, it's -"

"Willingness, I remember."

"Exactly. What are you _willing_ to do? Figure that out ahead of time so you _don't_ hesitate when the time comes. Are you willing to leave a man blind? Deaf? Crippled? Dead? What are you prepared to do, and under what circumstances? Decide that _now_ and then stick by your decision."

"Yes, I remember that talk very well."

"And it seems to me you've taken it to heart."

"I... yes. Yes, I have."

"Then feel no guilt, my friend. Someone tried to kill you and failed. Your training has paid off."

It's an absolution that he didn't even realize he wanted or needed, and Rick feels an almost absurdly overpowering wave of gratitude toward the man. "Thanks, Steve. Seriously, thanks."

"No thanks necessary, Rick." He gathers up his gear, slings the bag over his shoulder. "And from now on..."

"Yes?"

"We'll start spending more time on specific techniques against armed opponents. Seems like it's more relevant than I thought. Are you interested in weapons training, by the way?"

"Yes, I am, but you seemed to be against it when we first started training together."

"I don't like to see students spend time on that when they're starting out. Too much tendency to focus on the weapon, especially the knife, to develop a sort of 'tunnel vision' that excludes all the other techniques at your disposal. I feel like you've advanced far enough, fast enough, that it won't be an issue for you."

"So, you think I'm ready for it?"

"Yes, I think so. I know you're already a good marksman, so I was thinking more of blade and club techniques."

"I didn't even realize you taught that stuff."

"I don't, much. I have a friend I bring in for that, an Eskrima stylist, just superb. I think you'll like her."

* * *

><p>Five minutes and one humiliating crying jag later, she's able to continue.<p>

"I just wish I could get out of my own way, you know? Not overthink everything all the time. And sometimes, I almost feel like I could do it, it could work out. That just... loving him will be enough."

"You feel like you are in your own way. Why? How?"

"Every time I feel like I'm on the verge, I remember how I always screw things up. Never let myself go, get really close. Always with that one foot out the door. And he _knows_ it, knows that I do it. He called me on it once, not long before I was shot. We had a horrible, vicious fight, and he told me that I hide in the case, hide in relationships with men I don't love. God, it hurt. It hurt because it was true."

"What happened after that fight? How did you resolve it?"

"Resolve it? Hah! I just kicked him out of my apartment, went straight to Montgomery and gave him the ultimatum, that Castle had to go."

"And what did he say?"

"Son of a bitch called my bluff. Just... agreed to everything. It was like having a chair kicked out from under me. Looking back, I realize now that I was just venting. On some level, I probably even knew it at the time. I never expected him to actually kick Rick out, but it turns out he'd been keeping Castle on board the whole time just because he thought the man was good for _me_, not because of the Mayor." She swipes at her eyes again. "I hated him for that, a little. But I loved him for it more. God, I _miss_ him. Things have gotten better with Gates, but I still miss Roy. Every single day."

"And this was just before you were shot?"

"Yes. Montgomery was killed in the hangar over in Jersey that next night." _I never even got a chance to thank him_. "The funeral was a few days later, and, well, you know the rest."

"Not exactly. I think we need to continue the discussion we've been having. You may not have been in contact with Mr. Castle, but that doesn't mean we don't need to discuss the summer again, now with him in mind."

"What do you want me to say?"

"Why did you choose to ignore what he'd said, cut off contact? I think this is the time to hash that out, Kate."

She gives him a look that's pure incredulity. "For God's sake, there were people gunning for me! They'd sent a sniper to a funeral full of cops! People who would do that would be willing to do _anything_ to take me out, and Castle was ready to jump in front of the bullet if I gave him a chance. Christ, he came within a second of it at the funeral. If he'd been any quicker, Alexis would have been a witness to her father's murder."

She swipes again at the tears, wonders idly why she hasn't run dry, yet. Will she _ever_ run dry?

"I had nightmares about it for weeks, pinned under him as he bled out, watching the lights go out, those eyes, _God_, those _eyes_... Shit! I'm... give me a minute."

She reaches for the tissues again, covers her eyes and just... breathes in and out, getting herself back under control. When she looks up again, there's a touch of coldness in her eyes, a determined set in her jaw.

"So, yeah, I lied to him. And as soon as I could, I got the hell out of the city, ran for minimum safe distance. I kept _everyone_ away, not just Rick. I spent that first month living with the fear every single minute. I kept expecting to look down and see the laser on my chest. I went to bed every night wondering if I was going to wake up, wondering _why_ I was still breathing."

She takes a moment to think, another sip of water.

"They could have found me easily enough; my dad's name is on the title of that cabin, if they wanted me they could have found me. I _still_ don't understand why! Did they just... decide I'd been scared off?" She pauses, shakes her head angrily. "That doesn't make sense. Guys like these, why would they bother to _guess?_ Why take the chance, why not just finish the job? It _had_ to be something else. Did something happen that made them decide to lay low instead of risking another attempt? Maybe one of the investigations got closer than we thought? I don't know!"

"At some point you must have decided that you were in the clear, though, yes?"

"I guess it was after about 6 weeks or so. I just... went out one morning for my walk and realized a few minutes later that I hadn't checked for the red dot on my chest, hadn't scanned for sunlight reflecting off a rifle scope. I don't know if I just got tired of it, resigned myself, or if I honestly started to hope again. And by then..."

"What?"

"By then, it was just... too late. I'd waited so long, I couldn't figure out how to call. I was scared to do it, terrified of how he might answer - or that he might not answer at all. I'd sit in the kitchen and stare at the phone, sometimes for hours, trying to work up the nerve." She catches herself chewing at a thumbnail, an old nervous habit, and clasps her hands together in her lap. "There was no cell service up there, no signal for miles. So it was just this _ancient_ olive-green rotary phone mounted on the wall next to the pantry. It was old when my parents _bought_ the place, so old that the bakelite on the sunward side had faded from olive to something more like mint. And there were so many times I started dialing, but it took too long to do it, that damn dial spinning around after each number, giving me time to think, to second-guess. It took so long that I'd always chicken out before I was done and hang up."

* * *

><p>The burner rings far too early in the morning. It's either Pierce calling in the middle of an all-nighter or Holt calling with an abandon-ship. He grabs the phone off his bedside table, sees that it's Pierce, breathes a mild sigh of relief as he thumbs the answer button.<p>

"Hey Pierce. You're up late. What's going on?"

"Third package went online last night, and we're getting audio from Gossard's home. I ran the transcription software on the first three phone conversations and a face-to-face meeting he had with a couple of donors, and I wanted to let you know that the transcripts and the audio should be in your inbox now."

He levers himself out of bed, grabs his old blue robe and shrugs it on. "You've been working on that all this time?" He can hear his mother's voice coming from his office as he looks around for his iPhone.

"We've only got the speech translation software trained for the primary targets. Which worked like a charm, I might add."

He spots the iPhone on his dresser, scoops it up, checks for texts from Beckett and finds none. He drops it into the robe's right pocket and heads for the kitchen to make coffee. "I'd hope so. I spent a lot of time transcribing stump speeches off of YouTube to do that training. Good thing I'm a fast typist."

"It definitely paid off; the software was better than 97% accurate."

He checks the filter, decides to rinse it. "What about the other people involved?"

"I did manual transcriptions of their voices and trained separate instances of the code with those."

"Which explains why you're up so late." He drops the filter back in the machine, taps the button to start the grind-brew cycle. "You're going to be able to handle this, right? We obviously can't have you doing it manually every time, and we really, _really_ don't want to hire humans to do the transcription."

"Over time, I'm sure there will be less and less work. We'll build up a library of voice-recognition configurations to match the people they talk with frequently. That will help us to identify the speakers, too."

"How so?" Castle shuffles about the kitchen, waiting on the coffee and trying to ignore the sound of his mother monologuing in his office.

"Well, if we run the audio through all of the transcribers, the sections of text that don't blow up the spell-checker will let us know who was speaking based on which configuration was used."

"And if none of the text that gets spit out of a given configuration is good, you'll know the person that one was trained for wasn't involved in the conversation."

"Exactly, Rick. Plus, sections that all the transcribers fail on will alert us to a person we haven't heard before..."

"And then you need to train a new instance."

"You've got it. Given how many folks these guys talk with on a day-to-day basis, we'll probably end up with scores of configs, maybe even hundreds."

"Well, if you need help with any transcription, let me know." He reaches into the cabinet for a coffee mug as he adds, "I'm pretty fast, and there's no reason you should be doing all the work."

"I appreciate that, Rick, but for now I'm fine. You should go check what I've sent, let me know if you want any changes in the format I'm using for the transcription files."

He pours the cup about three-quarters full, adds some half-and-half and a little sugar. "Right. As soon as I can, buddy." He gives the coffee a quick stir and drops the spoon in the sink. "It sounds like I'm going to have to kick someone out of my office to get some privacy. I'll talk to you soon." He drops the burner into his left pocket as he heads for his office.

His mother's voice carries to him as he rounds the kitchen counter. "...no way in hell I am having this baby on a subway train in the Bronx." There is a brief pause before she continues, "Did you get all that?"

He can see her one man audience as he nears the office doorway. "So you actually gave birth to your son on the metro?"

_You have GOT to be joking._

"No, she didn't. She also didn't run a marathon the week before she had me or beat up a mugger while nine months pregnant."

* * *

><p>She can't believe she hasn't picked up on it before. In hindsight, it's glaringly obvious.<p>

She'd noticed some of the physical changes, of course. G_etting back into the gym, right._ But it's more than just the changes in his body. He moves differently now, smoother, more graceful.

He tends to keep more of his weight on the balls of his feet now, his knees slightly flexed when he's at rest, instead of standing back on his heels as he used to, like a soldier (or a cop) at attention. When she really pays attention she sees that the oafish clumsiness she remembers from previous years is gone, that posture and movement that always made her think of gangly adolescent boys struggling through growth spurts that pitted them against their own bodies.

Martha's ghost-writer, on hand for the encore performance, is now gone. Castle's out in the main room, helping Alexis return the furniture to its normal arrangement. Kate is with Martha in the kitchen, cleaning up, tossing out what's left of the _hors d'oeuvre_ from the previous night (still pretty darn good the second day, amazingly), emptying out drink glasses and such.

The open floor plan makes it easy to sneak glances at him when Martha isn't watching, but watching him is turning out to be a sort of bad idea. She finds that the warmth that blossomed in her chest while holding his hand (oh, how brave she'd felt, reaching back and covering it with her own, her chuckle drowned out in her own ears by the rush of blood and the feel of her heart tripping along in the cage of her ribs), that warmth is now migrating southward with a vengeance.

That furniture is _heavy_. He's just slinging it around like it's no big deal, barely a grunt of effort as he pushes tables aside, picks up chairs and carries them to and fro. With every bulge of his biceps as he lifts, every flex of shoulder and pectoral as he pushes and rolls, her heart rate ratchets up another notch.

The last straw comes when he reaches for the black leather settee (that thing _has_ to be close to 150 pounds!) and she almost calls out to him to wait for her help, but hesitates. He hoists the thing up like it's nothing, and she can literally _feel_ her jaw going slack. To make matters worse, she glances sideways, mouth probably still hanging open, and sees Martha looking _right at her_, catching her red-handed ogling the woman's son.

_Yeah, umm... busted._

"Katherine?"

"Uhhh... yes. Umm... just about done here, I think."

The older woman nods, still studying her intently. "Yes, yes, I think we are."

Martha glides over to the counter, positioning herself next to the detective. "Care to share, Katherine?"

Oh, no _way_ is she going to share what was going through her mind at that moment. She grabs a hand-towel, wipes her already-dry hands to buy herself a few seconds; thinking has gotten unexpectedly difficult. "I was going to offer to help, but he seems to have it under control."

"Yes, it appears that he does."

"He's been working out a lot lately, hasn't he?" _Oh, REALLY smooth, girl._ "I just... don't remember him being that strong." _Somebody just shoot me now..._

"Mornings and most evenings, darling. When he's not at the precinct, of course."

"He's lifting weights twice a day!?" _What's THAT all about?_

She makes a mental note to grill him about it at some point, probably tomorrow.

"Oh, no, I think he only does that in the mornings. He's got something else he's been doing at night. Won't talk about it. I thought it might be something he thought was girly, yoga or such, and he's embarrassed." She gives Kate a _just us girls_ wink. "Men and their egos..."

Kate feels the warmth drain out of her in a hurry. Thinking back on the standoff, the brutal way Castle dealt with his one-time muse, she's pretty damn sure he hasn't been doing yoga or barre classes.

Maybe she won't grill him after all. There are some things she'd rather not know, things that might make her second-guess whether he'd be better off not living in her world. She loves his humor and lightness of heart; if anything were to change that about him - if *she* were to change that about him - she doesn't know if she could forgive herself.

* * *

><p>Oh, shit. Oh... <em>shit<em>. This can _not_ be happening. He needs to talk to Rick _right now_.

He sends the email quickly, then systematically pings every one of the burner cells. Twice. Then he waits, fighting the urge to chew his nails, a nervous habit he thought he'd put behind him two decades before.

His misery is short-lived; Castle calls him back in just a few minutes. He's pretty sure his heart rate is only slightly above normal by the time the call comes. "Rick, that you?"

"Yeah, yeah; what the hell, Pierce? I walked out of the bedroom into the office, and every damn burner cell was going off at once."

Pierce may have only had a few minutes, but it was enough time to work up quite a head of steam, and he's not shy about sharing it. "Rick, you'd better be fucking straight with me: did you change the plan without telling me?"

"What?" It's early, and Castle hasn't had any coffee yet. What has Pierce so fired up? "Change the plan? No, no, of course not. What are you talking about?"

"What I'm talking about is that we started getting audio from another source, and it isn't in either of their homes or home district offices."

"I don't understand. Where else would it be?"

"Shit, Rick, where else _could_ it be? Think!"

Now we're playing twenty questions? What would Holt have... _Oh, no_. "No. Oh, hell, no. You can't be serious."

"As a damn heart attack, Rick. Who _is_ this guy? Seriously, who _is_ he? Somehow, he got into the... into... into their fucking _place of business_ and planted these things in their offices there! You didn't plan this with him? He just... decided to do it all on his own?"

"Pierce, I swear, I did _not_ ask him to do this. The plan was their homes and their offices back in their districts. It never even crossed my mind to _ask_ him to do that. Why would it? It would be impossible!"

"Yeah, yeah, impossible. I'm just dreaming, that's all! The nice lady answering the phone with 'United States Senate, Daniel Gossard's office,' is just a figment of my writer's imagination, that's it... oh, wait: _I'm_ not the writer, here, am I?"

"Pierce, just chill out, all right? We seriously need to stay calm; this is not a good time to panic."

"Au contraire, my friend, this is the _perfect_ time to fucking panic! I did _not_ sign on for this." Castle can hear Pierce hyperventilating through the phone, wonders disjointedly if the man might actually pass out. "You think they don't sweep that place for bugs, like, every damn day?!"

"Pierce, _please_ try to rein it in for a second, OK? I'll get in touch with him, find out what's going on. This guy is a professional, and he's very, very careful. He must have taken precautions." He's pulling the secure laptop out of the desk drawer as he speaks. "Don't start booking travel to a non-extradition country just yet, OK?"

"But..."

"Buddy, I _need_ your help, now more than ever. Calm down and let me find out what happened. It won't take long. I'm emailing him now."

"I already did, right after I texted you. I've got that separate email address for him. No response yet."

"Well, I'm just hitting 'send' on my own email. One or the other of us should get his reply soon."

* * *

><p>From: NikFrk1212 .net<br>To: willh4271 .uk  
>Subject: Unexpected Bonus<p>

Greetings,

Received some unexpected information this morning.

My colleague and I are very concerned, as this increases our exposure significantly.

Please advise ASAP.

* * *

><p>From: willh4271 .uk<br>To: NikFrk1212 .net  
>Subject: RE: Unexpected Bonus<p>

No worries. Sources have been carefully hardened and rebuilt by extremely competent and trustworthy personnel. Data transmission will appear as periodic static with highly encrypted embedded signal.

Sources have been enhanced with destruct mechanism. Details transmitted separately to your colleague. Should you decide the information is not worth the risk, just... "press the button."

Additional information at previously arranged location in lower Manhattan.

* * *

><p>The locker contains a gray leather Dunhill messenger bag, with a small linen envelope propped against it bearing the initials "R C"<p>

Castle eyes the bag warily before picking up the envelope and, after a brief pause, opening it.

_Mr. C,_

_Even the less-than-righteous may occasionally rejoice in a righteous act._

_Thank you for the opportunity._

_Regards, W H_

Inside the bag is another envelope resting atop a very familiar-looking pile of cash.


End file.
